


like snowflakes in the air

by aravendown, foxwatson



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Christmas Cookies, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Music, Flashbacks, Inspired by Hallmark Christmas Movies, M/M, Snow, So expect, a shoe addict's christmas, and all assorted kinds of, specifically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:49:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21800980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aravendown/pseuds/aravendown, https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxwatson/pseuds/foxwatson
Summary: Eliot Waugh is a disgruntled Brakebills department store employee who's given up on his dreams of a professional singing career. Quentin Coldwater is a teacher at a local Manhattan school who's just moved into Eliot's apartment building and is still recovering from the death of his father. When Brakebills decides to host a charity gala for teachers, Eliot and Quentin are thrust together to plan the gala.None of this is made any easier by the fact that Eliot's "guardian angel" Charlton has chosen this exact moment to show up and tell him all about how he's been living his life wrong.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 10
Kudos: 56
Collections: Magicians Hallmark Holiday Extravaganza





	like snowflakes in the air

**Author's Note:**

> a special thank you to my artist, aravendown here on ao3 and @twentythousandleagues over on tumblr for the absolutely delightful art to accompany the fic - and also mostly for her patience and hard work!
> 
> title credit to frank sinatra's christmas memories - the line and that song felt appropriate for this fic!
> 
> heads up, obviously this is fairly fluffy because it's a christmas holiday exchange fic, but there is some discussion of domestic abuse in this fic and some discussion of alcoholism/using alcohol as a coping mechanism. clearly there's a happy ending to be found, but please do take care of yourself in the process!

The problem is, in the end, like so many, Eliot is a victim of capitalism. If you want to live in Manhattan, there are only so many options when it comes to finding work. He could have worked in bartending, or taken a job at some sad little piano bar near Broadway to beg for tips, but instead he ends up at Brakebills.

Brakebills department store is far from the worst place to work in New York City. Eliot has had more than his fair share of truly shitty jobs, and selling menswear to Wall Street assholes doesn’t even breach the top five. It’s no dream career, it isn’t particularly creatively fulfilling, but it pays well, it keeps the roof of his very nice apartment over his head, and it means that he gets to work in the same place as Margo. The perks outweigh the general sense of drudgery, and the fact that if he stops to think about it too long he feels like his soul was sucked out long ago.

His personal favorite part of his job is surprisingly not Margo’s occasional visits to his department. Instead, it’s his very excellent employee discount. No matter how often he seems to be dipping into his paychecks to buy vests and ties and shoes and jackets from the store, the discount still seems to be single handedly saving his bank account. That easily wins the favorites contest. 

Besides, buying from the store makes him a more effective employee as well - more capable of recommending products and brands, more aware of product quality. It also makes his boss happier when he wears clothing they actually sell. It allows Eliot to function as a walking, talking department mannequin.

He doesn’t have a lot of people in his life to discourage him from being a little overzealous on his spending. Generally speaking, Margo tends to cheer him on, and she buys him either a tie or a scarf every Christmas. Any time he gets a chance to pick up something new and try it on, or even arrange an entirely new outfit, it eases the frustration of being forced to work in a place like Brakebills. So the finer things his job can offer him are a comfort, whatever, sue him.

Eliot’s boss, Henry Fogg, hates Eliot the least of anyone else that works under him. Eliot is fairly certain that’s the best he or anyone has to hope for with Fogg. If he doesn’t hate you quite as much, he might keep you around a little longer or feel slightly more inclined to give you a little a bonus or a raise every once in a while.

The holidays are the worst time of year to work at any retail job, no matter how you try to spin it. There’s a holiday bonus to look forward to at Brakebills, and a typically classy party to liven things up a little, but it doesn’t change the fact that holiday customers are always twice as entitled and ten times as impatient.

The entire unpleasant holiday situation this year is only exacerbated by the fact that Eliot making himself into a beacon of taste has an unfortunate side effect. Fogg wants him to plan this year’s holiday gala. For most people this would be a compliment, but Eliot is smart enough to key into the fact that Fogg is only asking an employee because Eliza, his second-in-command, has business to tend to in England this year. The gala this year is also special because it’s Brakebills’ first time being the primary sponsor for a charity gala specifically.

Fogg keeps hinting at it every time he stops by the men’s department, until finally he pulls Eliot into his office one day and sits him down to talk.

Sitting behind his desk, Fogg interlaces his own fingers and attempts to look imposing. Eliot is too tired and too fucking fed up to be intimidated by Henry Fogg on a normal day - and that has nothing on how Eliot feels while working in the middle of the holiday season. He hates the holidays. He has for a long time.

Tapping his fingers on the wood of his desk, Fogg gets Eliot’s attention again. “Eliot, regardless of how you do or do not feel about the holidays, that is not the question at hand. You can hate Christmas and anything else you like, we just need you to select a venue and make it look good and possibly attend for a matter of moments. I know that you and Margo aren’t doing anything else for the holidays because neither of you have asked for the days off, and comparatively it’s quite a low time commitment. It’s a charity gala this year, and the time cost of planning will be added to your bonus. Why would you say no?”

“Frankly, Mr. Fogg, because I don’t want to do it. We’re planning a charity gala for a teacher’s organization, it’s not exactly going to be the party of the year.” He crosses his legs, resisting the urge to fidget in the uncomfortable chair across from Fogg’s desk. “How much is the bonus?”

Fogg slides a figure to him on a small piece of paper. The number is high enough that it makes the decision easy. It’s certainly enough to provide for a lovely spring vacation for himself and Margo.

“So what are the details for the gala again?”

So here Eliot is, in the middle of the busy season, trying to figure out a decent venue to host a charity gala for teachers. There is no small part of Eliot that keeps thinking  _ ugh, teachers _ , like why couldn’t it have been firefighters or doctors or a profession just a little bit sexier? There are people into the teacher thing, obviously, but Eliot has never been one of them, and he can’t imagine that he ever would be. People good with children and Eliot Waugh are two separate circles in a Venn diagram.

All of this is on top of the fact that hunting out venues has him absolutely swamped, because there’s too many fucking choices in New York. He could use help, but he doesn’t want to bother Margo with it, and she’s annoyed anyways because their plans keep suffering in the face of all his newfound work responsibility.

He’s still a little pissed off about the whole thing the day he comes home and bumps into the new guy moving into 1C.  
  


* * *

  
Classes are winding down for winter break the day that Quentin is moving into his new apartment. He always lets his students vote on what they wind down the semester with, and more often than not, he gets to teach Fillory for at least a week, always making him remember why he decided to be an English teacher in the first place.

“Don’t forget to keep your reading logs over winter break!” he calls after the retreating backs - but they’re all rushing out the door, eager for the time off, and he can hardly blame them. He’s looking forward to it this year himself - a little time to write, to settle into his new place, to get his life back in order.

Things have been a little tough since his dad passed away, but he’s slowly started to embrace the newfound freedom of it all, mostly with encouragement from Julia.

“You’re sure you don’t need my help lugging any boxes around? I’m asking purely out of friendly obligation, obviously, but I’m still going to ask,” she leads with, walking into his classroom as if on cue.

He smiles at her as he tugs on his jacket. “No, Jules, I don’t have much left anyways. The movers brought all the big stuff in. You know me, most of what’s left is just books. Plus, I’m on the ground floor for once, it can’t be that hard.”

She sighs at him. “How many of those boxes are just special editions of Fillory and Further?”

“I’m refraining from comment on that one, because you already probably know, and I don’t have to answer!” He goes over to her and kisses her on the cheek. “I have to get over there, though, they’re dropping off the boxes pretty soon, and I wanna get in before it gets too dark and I freeze to death while I’m carrying boxes.”

“Are we gonna talk about Columbia anytime soon?”

Quentin stops short at that, blinking at her. “I mean. I’m still thinking about it, Jules. Is there something else to talk about?”

“You know I could help you out, we could find people to put in a good word for you. I think it’s a kind of self-sabotage if you don’t even really let yourself try. Leaving it up to chance is silly, Q.”

He shrugs. “I’m not sure about it, yet. When I’m sure, you’ll be the first to know.”

She gives him a look, but he just grins and waves as he leaves.

It’s possible she has a point about the job. Quentin, for a long time, has thought about moving up to college teaching, because then he could fully specialize in fantasy or children’s literature or both, and his students would be far more engaged. On the other hand, he hates to leave his school in the lurch, and he doesn’t know if he’s ready to balance all the responsibilities of being a college professor, particularly if he landed something tenure track.

The entire idea has been one he’s been more seriously considering since he decided to move into the city proper, but Julia’s right that he hasn’t been taking it seriously, even after a position recently opened up.

Maybe the whole thing has him distracted when he’s carrying his books in, and that’s why he bumps directly into someone.

Quentin still has a box of books cradled in his arms - one with some particularly fragile historical editions in it - so he’s even more awkward as he tries to apologize, unable to really use his hands.

“Sorry, God I’m so sorry, first day in the building so I’m still a little lost I guess.”

“Apparently so.”

Unfortunately, in spite of his snarky tone, Quentin finds that the guy has a great voice. Deep and just. Really nice. When Quentin finally peers around the box properly, he quite honestly wants to die, because the guy is both tall and gorgeous.

He has this floppy, curly hair, meticulously styled. He’s wearing a vest and a long, swishing winter coat that is almost certainly designer. If Quentin had ruined any of his clothing, there’s no way he’d be able to afford to replace it.

Even his face has, like, an artful amount of stubble on it. Quentin suddenly feels horribly underdressed somehow just to be standing in an apartment hallway. His own hair is up in a ponytail, and he has on his comfortable old clothes just to move things in. Inadequacy practically floods through him. He swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. “Sorry. Again. I’m just moving in, obviously, and it’s hard to see around the… boxes.”

“Just watch where you’re going next time.”

“Right! Yeah, of course, I’m just going to 1C - I’m guessing you live here?”

“What gave you that impression?”

Quentin blinks, unable to tell if he’s joking or not. “Right. Well. Sorry again. For bumping into you. Maybe I’ll see you around! Or not.”

With that, he sort of runs, with the box, back to his apartment and behind the door, trying to escape the conversation as quickly as humanly possible.

There’s only so much he can take for one day.  
  


* * *

  
The problem with 1C is that he is cute, in an unassuming kind of way. Eliot has been known to be fond of a high-strung super nerd or two in his time, and with the guy living in his building, it seems almost too easy - but Eliot also knows he came off more than a little bitchy when they bumped into each other. It was a bad day, even for a cute boy.

Eliot keeps thinking maybe they’ll bump into each other again sometime, but it hasn’t happened yet. Either he’s still just too fucking busy, or 1C is a little bit of a recluse - or both, of course.

Still, he feels like another little run-in with 1C would brighten up his life, improve his suddenly sluggish days, piled high with customers and tie folding and display arranging and venue hunting.

He bemoans his situation to Margo one night as he lays on her couch with a drink in his free, ungesturing hand. “I just can’t believe how desperate all of this is making me. I sound pathetic. You’d be well within your rights to throw me out on the street, I’m being no fun at all. For some reason all of this fucking planning work for a charity gala piled on top of holiday shoppers and the new nerd boy just has me oddly pent-up. I’m worried about myself.”

“El, keep drinking and stop talking,” she tells him as she returns to the couch. He lifts his legs, and she sits down there with his feet in her lap. She rubs her thumb over his ankle. “Loathe as I am to talk about it, we’re absolutely sure this mood has nothing to do with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, right?”

That makes Eliot tense up. He freezes, and clutches at the glass in his hand so hard his knuckles go white.

He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, aside from being scant evidence of Margo’s own secret nerd background, is the joking way that Margo refers to Eliot’s ex, Mike. Mike is an asshole. His relationship with Eliot was fairly short lived, but remarkable mostly in the fact that it was an actual relationship. Eliot had, mistakenly, very genuinely liked Mike. He’d supported Eliot’s passions and made Eliot want to do things other than drink. Then it had turned out that Mike had been lying about an almost impressive number of things, and he and Eliot had gotten into a horrible fight, right around the holidays, and Mike had gotten violent. Eliot had hit him back, and somehow still feels guilty when he thinks about it. He hasn’t tried to date ever since.

Margo maybe isn’t entirely wrong that part of the reason the season makes Eliot all maudlin is because of Mike, and that entire situation. In fact, maybe, particularly, Eliot recently went to hateread Mike’s instagram and discovered instead that Mike had recently gotten engaged.

It’s been years, so of course he could have met someone new and gotten serious. But that he gets away clear and Eliot is still drinking wine on Margo’s couch and moping stings more than Eliot would care to admit.

“Of course not, Bambi. That would require me devoting even a single spare thought to He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, which I would not dare to do.”

She raises one perfectly-formed eyebrow at him, because she sees right through him, just like always. He crumbles.

“Fine,” he continues. “Maybe He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named got engaged like the absolute fuck that he is and while I’m not jealous of the poor idiot who did the engaging, I am… conceptually jealous. Not that I even want to be engaged, that implies commitment. I’m just cold all the time and seeing his stupid cuddly engagement photo made me think. And then that boy who’s just my type moves in right down the hall and walks right into me with his box full of books.”

Margo sighs, and moves her hand to rub soothingly at his shin. “Sweetie, you’ve got to get over that. Not the new boy, necessarily, I’ll reserve judgement on that until I’ve seen him, but first of all, very bad and sad move going on your ex’s instagram only weeks before Christmas. That was never good for anyone.”

“I know,” Eliot whines, flipping onto his side to groan into the couch cushions. “What made me like this?”

“You made you like this. You’re dramatic at the best of times, obviously that’s something we have in common, but the holidays are not your best of times.”

Eliot knows that Margo knows why that’s true. He’s still so grateful she doesn’t even begin to mention it. “I know. I shouldn’t have looked. But that doesn’t solve the problem of now that I have looked, I feel like this, all shriveled up and pathetic. Plus it’s - the guy he got engaged to-”

“Don’t tell me. He sings.”

Sometimes it’s nice when Margo finishes his sentence and he doesn’t have to say anything. Benefits of having a best friend who is essentially your soulmate. He turns his head so that he can peek one eye out from the couch cushions, and he nods.

Margo groans, and rolls her eyes. “I can’t believe he has a type. What a bastard. I know - I know we’ve had this conversation so I won’t do that to you again. You know I want you to be happy, and maybe you’re happier not performing, but - you know how it goes.”

Sighing, Eliot nods again. Margo knew him before he stopped performing. She always used to tell him he had a beautiful voice, used to come watch him sing and smile and squeeze at his arm. She was so proud of him back then, bragging about him to everyone in reachable distance. Now he works at a retail store. It’s too tragic to be worth thinking about.

Gently, Margo pats his leg, then shoves his feet from her lap so that she can stand up. She goes behind her counter and starts pouring herself another drink.

He watches her, then stretches and stands up. “An excellent suggestion, let’s get back to drinking.”

This entire experience leaves him vulnerable and mildly hungover when he goes in to work the next day. He’s barely even clocked in before Fogg accosts him.

“Eliot! So glad to catch you - I need you to run by the school and make contact with one of the teachers so we can work a little harder on outreach related to the charity gala. One of the teachers is going to be helping you plan, I need you to find out who and get the ball rolling on that.”

It’s the last thing he needs when he vaguely contemplated wearing sunglasses to work to hide his eyes and dull the glare of the fluorescent department store lights. Still, he pastes on a smile and nods at Fogg. “Yeah, sure! I’ve been in touch with the principal at the school,” not a complete lie, “So I’ll just run by there later, after my shift.”

Fogg gives him a smile and a nod and walks off again.

Eliot goes behind the register, flops forward onto the counter, and groans into it.

The shift that proceeds is, of course, brutal. The line of customers never seems to let up, and every single one of them needs a full suit for a business-related holiday party. Eliot is running out of festive ties to try and push on them, nearly half of them think pocket squares are too effeminate and scoff when he suggests them. None of them are happy with Eliot’s suggestion of themed socks, either, because they all demand some part of the actual suit be red or green, and aside from it being ugly, the department store stock is really just starting to run low on options.

It’s well after his usual time when he finally gets to clock out, and he knows that it’s likely there won’t be anyone at the school this late when the students have already gotten out. Nonetheless, Eliot leaves the store with one parting wave at Margo and trudges out into the falling snow towards the nearby public school.

He’d really expected the door to be locked when he arrives, but it isn’t. When he peeks inside, most of the lights are off, and the hallways are empty, but someone must be around if he can just make his way in.

It seems impossibly unsecure to leave a school just hanging open like that, but Eliot embraces the one tiny bit of good luck. If he can just find the principal or even a single teacher, he can at least get this part of the nightmare over with.

The first few rooms he peeks inside are empty classrooms. All the little desks with the chairs attached sit abandoned. City lights stream in through the windows, casting patterned shadows over the hideous tile floors. It looks like something out of a horror movie, the whole school empty and dark. That’s not even mentioning the fact that if Eliot were to really envision hell for himself, it probably would just be high school.

This sad Manhattan public school bears a strange resemblance to his own high school in Indiana, but maybe it’s just that all high schools look the same to some extent. Particularly the underfunded ones.

As Eliot pulls back and steps out of the room, he turns and spots someone in the hallway. If he makes an extremely undignified noise, that’s nobody’s business but his own. After he straightens up again and clears his throat, he steps a little closer. He still can’t make out much of the figure in the dark. “Excuse me? Hi, I’m Eliot Waugh, I’m here to talk about the charity gala for Brakebills? I’m assuming you’re a teacher.”

“I know who you are, Eliot Waugh,” a man’s voice sounds as the figure finally steps out of the shadows. The experience would be much scarier if the other man wasn’t smaller than Eliot and a little awkward looking, with a messy crop of red hair. His clothes, also, are patently ridiculous, all green and gold and almost like something out of a bad adaptation of Shakespeare - only with more Christmas.

“Right, I would hope so, I’ve been talking to someone on the phone about planning. I don’t think it was you, because I don’t recognize your voice, but if it was the principal, I’m hoping he’s been passing the world along at least that this is all happening and I’m in charge. So, let’s try this again. Hi, I’m Eliot Waugh. And you are?”

The other man steps closer, his expression serious. “Charlton.”

“...Okay. Charlton as in Mr. Charlton? Because I’m not a student, or Charlton as in, Charlton, like Cher, no last name.”

“Just Charlton. We don’t really use full names.”

The cryptic nature of Charlton’s every sentence is making Eliot want to walk all the way to Central Park and scream so loudly in frustration that he frightens the birds. Instead, he puts on his customer service voice. “Right. One of those progressive schools. That’s great! Are you actually the teacher helping me plan, then? Or is there some other reason you’re hovering around in the hallways during Christmas break?”

Charlton frowns. “Oh I’m not a teacher. I’m here for you.”

Well isn’t that just the most unsettling thing Eliot’s ever heard. He tries to keep his smile comforting. “Right. Helping with planning?”

“This isn’t my first time doing this, Eliot. I know if I try to explain it to you, you’re just not going to listen and you’re going to think I’m crazy. You obviously already think I’m crazy. So I’m just going to show you the first thing I think you should look at, and we’ll go from there, hm?”

With that, Charlton marches forward and places a hand on Eliot’s shoulder.

Before Eliot can shrug him off, there’s a strange kind of rushing sound in his ears and everything is suddenly far too bright. When he blinks his eyes open, the weight on his shoulder is gone, but so is everything else in the hallway.

He knows that only moments before he was standing in the school, and it was dark outside.

Now, instead, he’s standing in a sunny living room, and he can see snow on the ground outside the window. The sun reflecting off of it makes everything bright, and the light bounces around the room, off the ornaments on the tree, off the wrapping paper on the presents.

Eliot knows where he is instantly. It makes him freeze in his tracks, standing stock still as he takes everything in. The flat land outside, the scant trees in the distance, he’d know it all anywhere. The ugly carpet under his feet, too. The questionable wallpaper. As he turns, he sees the fireplace, right where it always was. The stockings hang over it, ugly and handmade. Eliot can’t resist walking over and brushing his fingers over his own. It feels real. Undeniably real.

In the distance, he can hear The Carpenters playing on the radio. A Christmas song.

Then his mother starts singing along.

That’s the last straw.

Eliot, out loud, says, “Oh, fuck this,” and he turns and marches out the front door of his childhood home, out into the Indiana snow.

He closes his eyes, and he walks until he bumps into something.

It’s a tree. Out in the front yard. Out to the left, in the field, he can see the barn in the distance. Out to the right, there’s the road, just visible on the horizon. He still knows it all like the back of his hand, like he sees it in his nightmares.

His feet are still freezing. They almost feel wet from the snow.

When Eliot turns around to look back at where he came from, he sees Charlton standing there, between him and the house. Charlton gives him an awkward wave.

Sick of the bullshit, Eliot walks right up to him and pokes him in the chest. “Okay, what the fuck is happening? And what the fuck is your general deal? Do you just wander around high schools at night handing out hallucinogenic drugs? Also, like, the worst hallucinogenic I’ve ever had, by the way. What kind of fucked up hallucinogen is like hey, here, think about your dead mom! I realize that’s theoretically possible all the time, don’t answer that. Still, you doing this on school property makes this much more legally punishable.”

Charlton just smiles at him. “We’re not on school property anymore, Eliot. Clearly we’re at your childhood home in Indiana, the Christmas you were 12 years old. Remember how it snowed? And you’re not on drugs, when would I have slipped you anything? Try again.”

It is an awful feeling, because Eliot is genuinely afraid. “Is this - Is this A Christmas Carol? I really don’t know that I need to be punished or something, I know I’m not the nicest guy in Mahattan, but I feel like there are some Wall Street yuppies who have to be worse, right? I’m not denying a little boy with a debilitating illness his father on Christmas. I don’t even have any employees to pay poorly. What about Henry? Henry has to be doing worse than me.”

“Your boss has his own problems, that’s true. I’m here for you, though. I said that. And Dickens did have some things right, but this isn’t a punishment, Eliot. I’m helping you to get your life back on track. Do you not want to start here?”

Eliot can still hear the distant strains of the radio. He looks at Charlton. “Do I get a choice? Like if I tell you to leave the family situation out of it, I can just do that? Because that’s - my mom is dead, and my dad is - that whole situation is just a lost cause.”

As his head tilts to one side, Charlton gives Eliot a look. Something in it is almost sympathetic. “There are other ways to fix where you’ve ended up. Your father isn’t in this one. It’s just you and your mother. You want to skip ahead?”

Suddenly, Eliot has a feeling he knows what’s waiting for him inside. This entire situation is still batshit insane, but he’s genuinely cold, and the house was warm, with the smell of baking cookies in the air. Inside is one of the only happy moments of his entire childhood. He may as well give it a shot. “No - okay. If I’m doing this at all I may as well go along for the ride.”

He only spares one more glance at Charlton before he starts trudging back through the snow to the house, listening to it crunch beneath his feet.

He opens the door and steps back inside.

The Carpenters song starts over again, crackling over the radio, and his mother starts singing in the kitchen. Eliot looks over at the tree, decorated with all the same ornaments. He still remembers helping to put them up, each one something passed down through the family or handmade by someone at church.

Heaving out a sigh, Eliot turns and walks into the kitchen. His mother is there, pulling cookies out of the oven, and as she puts them on top of the stove to rest, she turns and spots Eliot.

“Oh, Eliot. Come and help me decorate.”

“Dad won’t like it,” his own voice sounds behind him. When he turns, his own childhood self is there, stepping cautiously into the kitchen.

“Well we won’t tell him.” She smiles, and waves him over, so he goes, smiling a little. “We have to let them cool first, help me get them off the pan.”

He watches the two of them working for a few moments. Then younger Eliot turns. “Mom, what were you singing?”

“Oh, it’s the Carpenters. Have I never made you listen to them?”

Eliot shakes his head.

“I used to love the Carpenters. Karen Carpenter had the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard - but she died when she was still young. I wanted to sing for a long time, but it can be hard on you, something like that. She died because of the things people used to say about her - they made her feel bad about herself, and she did some things she shouldn’t have, that hurt her, and she died.”

The whole thing, even now, hits a little too close to home for Eliot.

Younger Eliot speaks again, to say, “I think you have a great voice, mom.”

“So do you, Eliot. And I bet if you wanted to sing when you get older, you’d be great. No matter what your dad says.”

Eliot’s younger self and his mother share a smile. She kisses the top of his head, and the two of them prepare to decorate the cookies.

Charlton comes up behind Eliot and puts a hand on his shoulder. Eliot turns to face him and knows that his face is still all pinched and upset. This is all a little too much for him to maintain an air of nonchalance.

“This was a turning point,” Charlton tells him. “One of the moments in your life that was key to where you are now. It made you want to be a singer, but it made you nervous about what might happen if you did. Still, in this one moment your mother’s encouragement helped you make a brave decision - that you would pursue your passion after all.”

The rushing sound comes back, and Eliot closes his eyes.

When he opens them, the two of them are back in the school again. Eliot shivers.

Charlton continues. “Somewhere along the way, you gave up on that passion. You don’t sing anymore. You took your job at Brakebills and you let it take over your life. You’ve missed out on other things too, things you might not have missed if you’d been making the right choices. I’m here to help you fix all that.”

Eliot scoffs, dodging away from Charlton. “And who the fuck are you to just show up and say anything like that? I don’t care if you have some kind of fucked up magical powers, I am the one living my life, I make the choices.”

“Yes, you do. I’m just here to show you how things might have been different, if you’d chosen differently.”

“Well, great, thank you for the life lesson, please leave me alone now.”

Eliot storms off down the hallway, but he’s surprised when Charlton doesn’t follow him.

When he turns around again, Charlton has disappeared.

For a moment, Eliot turns in circles, and checks the nearby classrooms, but Charlton is just actually gone. “Fucking fantastic,” Eliot mutters under his breath.

With his bizarre Twilight Zone experience behind him, Eliot goes to leave the school, but finds now that the door he entered through is locked behind him, somehow. He shakes the handle, and pushes, and shouts, but nothing changes the fact that he’s not getting out anytime soon. “Seriously?” he asks. The door does not respond.

He turns, and is faced with the empty hallway again. Sighing, he goes back to checking to see if anyone is here. Maybe there was no one except for the mysterious and questionable Charlton, who probably did just wander in off the street and give Eliot a very vivid hallucinogen. Every part of that makes much more sense than magic and Christmas Carol bullshit.

The trouble is, Eliot still can’t find anyone. Every classroom he checks is empty, he can’t find any lights on, and the only teacher’s lounge he finds is locked. He’s still a little cold, and though he refuses to examine it, a little damp. When he finds the library, and the door is open, he steps inside and finds that it’s a little warmer than the rest of the school - it’s probably a little more temperature controlled.

If he calls the cops or the fire department, they can come and get him out, but it will be colossally embarrassing. If he waits it out until morning, he can still probably meet up with the principal or a teacher there on a work day, pretend he has arrived bright and early to do so. The only one who will know he suffered a night locked in the school will be himself - and probably Margo, because he’ll complain to her about it later.

For the moment, then, it’s evening and he’s locked in a high school library, and he’s just had one of the weirdest and most unpleasant experiences of his entire life.

Fortunately, there in the empty library, all he can think about is the scene from The Breakfast Club where all the kids in detention dance in the library when they’re left there unattended. It was one of Eliot’s favorite scenes in the movie, always had been, and some part of him had always wanted to recreate it. And now, here he is, left unattended in a high school library.

He pulls out his phone, pokes around on Spotify, and pulls up Karla Devito’s “We Are Not Alone.” He does every dance move he can vividly remember, and makes things up to fill in the bits he can’t remember.

The song, of course, only lasts three and a half minutes, and he still has a lot of time to blow.

For about an hour, he pokes around in the library, looking at books, digging through newspapers, rearranging the encyclopedias to spell out other words. Then he cracks and finds a copy of A Christmas Carol and starts poking around in it, trying to see if it can give him any answers. It’s very much a fictional book, though, obviously, and it tells him nothing that would be in any way useful.

Once all of that is done, he lays on his back on one of the library tables, with his legs dangling off of one end, because he’s too tall for it. He kicks off his shoes, and listens to them thunk against the carpet. He takes off his jacket and scarf, and rolls up his sleeves.

He thinks, then, about the general possibilities of being locked in the school.

The last idea he has for entertaining himself is just sliding around the hallways in his socks. It is, of course, ridiculous. He shouldn’t do it. He’s an adult, and he shouldn’t even be here.

None of these thoughts keep him from getting up, going out of the library, and taking a running start and sliding down the long hallway until he nearly bumps into the lockers. He laughs, turns the corner and does it again. The floor is slick, and even if it’s a little cold it doesn’t stop him from being able to get some real speed out of all his sliding around. With that going on, it’s easy to forget all about Charlton and his terrifying experience.

He’s still giggling and distracted when he slides around another corner and nearly bumps into someone.

“Oh, shit- Uh.”

There, in front of him, is 1C.  
  


* * *

  
The last thing Quentin wants to do on a weekday night over his break is go back to school. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have a choice, because he left his reading copy of The World in the Walls on his desk in his hurry to meet the movers the week before.

His entire plan is for it to be an extremely quick trip, just in and out. Sneak back in, see no one, grab the book from his classroom and run for it. There shouldn’t be anyone there this late anyways, but Quentin feels like he always assumes he can safely avoid people and ends up running into more people anyways.

Still, he gets all bundled up and braves the cold to get to the school. It looks at first like he’s right, and no one else is there.

Then, as he’s making his way to his classroom, he hits a corner and almost runs headfirst into someone.

It is, of course, the hot guy from his apartment building, because Quentin’s life is a nightmare.

Just like last time, Quentin is suddenly overly conscious of his beanie, his messy hair, and his old jacket. He also, though, really feels like maybe he’s dreaming or hallucinating because there’s no real reason for the guy from his building to be in the school this late. Literally no reason whatsoever. The guy looks a little guilty and caught off-guard, which only makes Quentin more unsettled by the entire situation.

“Um. Hi? Are you - why are you here?”

“Well I-” Clearing his throat, the guy straightens his posture and sticks out a hand. “I’m Eliot Waugh, hi. I didn’t introduce myself in the building, obviously, but now I have a feeling you work here and that’s probably going to end up being relevant. I was here to meet with someone about the charity gala. I work for Brakebills.”

“Brakebills?” Quentin asks. Then, slowly, he remembers. Some faculty meeting about a charity gala to raise money for the school. Julia telling him he’d be forced to be a part of some planning committee for the gala, which she promised would be low key. Already this is not seeming very low key. “Right. Sorry. I’m Quentin. Coldwater. Just- wasn’t expecting, uh - so you. You work for the department store sponsoring the gala. And you were supposed to meet someone here?”

Eliot, because apparently his name is Eliot, nods as he begins to roll his sleeves back down and button his cuffs. “Yes. I spoke to the principal, your principal, and Fogg, who runs Brakebills, told me I should come by and start working on some of the planning in person. Apparently there’s been a teacher appointed to plan with me? Would you have any idea who that is? I am assuming you’re actually a teacher.”

Quentin huffs out a laugh. “Sort of glad you didn’t just look at me and immediately think I was a teacher. I’ve been told before I have that sort of effect on people. But yeah, I- I work here. I teach English. I was actually here to grab something out of my office. Are you - did you get locked in?”

Glancing down at himself, and then over at Quentin, Eliot sighs. His attemptedly professional smile falls. “Yes. I am having the weirdest fucking day, so yes I got locked in here. Sorry. I’m glad you’re here so I don’t have to sleep in a high school. That might really be a new low. Let me just go get my stuff.”

“Okay. I- yeah, just meet me back here.”

Eliot walks off down the hallway, and Quentin just assumes he knows where he’s going. He takes one more glance at Eliot over his shoulder, then goes back to making his way to his classroom. Fortunately, his book is right there on his desk, right where he’d left it. One part of the plan still managed to go right.

He heads back to where he first ran into Eliot, and when Eliot returns he’s wearing a coat and scarf on top of his outfit - yet again, far too stylish and well-tailored for any casual meeting. Quentin clutches his book a little closer to his chest.

“So, should we-,” he starts, looking up at Eliot. “Should we split a taxi back to the building? Are you heading home?”

“Oh.” Eliot puts his hands in his pockets. “Makes sense. Why not?”

Quentin nods, maybe a little too vigorously, and starts walking so they can make their way out of the school and out to the curb. They do actually make it out of the building, and Eliot sighs with relief behind him.

Unfortunately, it’s late enough that they have to blow some time standing on the curb while they wait for a taxi. Quentin moves his arm to shift his hold on the book, and that’s when Eliot notices it.

“Is that a Fillory and Further book?”

It makes Quentin pull the book closer again and he knows that he’s flushing a little. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, it is. I teach them to my kids at the end of the semester, sometimes, sort of for fun.”

Eliot smiles slightly. “I read those when I was a kid. I don’t remember much, but I did read them.”

“They’re sort of my favorite books. Still,” Quentin admits, glancing at Eliot and then away again.

He’s saved from having to hear Eliot respond because they’re finally able to call down a taxi, and once they’re in the car with the music and the driver and the heat, neither of them pick the conversation back up.

When they do make it back to their building, both of them are still a little damp and cold from the snow, Eliot more than he is. They shuffle inside quietly. Quentin keeps looking at Eliot because he can’t stop himself - the line of his coat, his perfectly curly hair with snowflakes still clinging to it, his jawline. He really can’t remember the last time he saw anyone he was this attracted to - but he thinks, too, that anyone would probably just have to be dead to not be attracted to Eliot. He’s the most beautiful man Quentin has ever seen. That soft little smile when he talked about Fillory earlier didn’t help anything, either.

Quentin starts to give Eliot an awkward little wave and duck off to his apartment, but Eliot stops him.

“Wait,” he says. “If you know about the gala planning, can I just get your number in case I need it? I still don’t know exactly who I’m supposed to reach out to, and I can probably get a name from your principal, but I’d rather be able to ask you who they are and if they’re going to be useful at all actually helping me plan anything.”

That’s a surprise. Quentin blinks at him a few times before he manages to start fumbling for his phone. “Uh, sure, yeah, it’s- here. Just put your number in. I’ll text you or something.”

Eliot grabs Quentin’s phone and taps at it.

When he hands it back to Quentin, Quentin sees that Eliot has already sent himself a text that says 1C: Quentin Coldwater.

“You never told me your name last time, so I was calling you your apartment number. Now I have a name. Even if it is sort of an interesting name.”

“Well you’re one to talk about an interesting name. Eliot Waugh?”

Eliot shrugs. “Waugh is a good last name. I changed mine when I moved here, so I got to pick it. Maybe it’s a little dramatic, but I think it suits me.” He grins. “I think yours suits you, too. Have a good night, Quentin Coldwater.”

“Uh. Yeah, okay,” Quentin barely manages to babble. He watches Eliot leave, and then he hurries back to his own apartment and shuts the door behind himself, just so he can lean against it. He is so utterly and completely fucked if planning is actually going to involve seeing Eliot on a regular basis.  
  


* * *

  
The next morning, Eliot has too many things to process to reasonably have to do so without some kind of alcohol. His shift doesn’t start for a while, so he texts Margo and invites her to brunch. He cannot possibly tell her about anything that happened with his possibly imaginary friend Charlton and the haunting memories of his childhood, but he can certainly tell her that he got 1C’s name and they may end up seeing more of each other in the process of the entire charity gala debacle. Maybe Fogg badgering him was good for something after all.

Before he heads out to brunch, though, he gives the principal a call, just to check in.

“Principal Sunderland here, can I help you?”

“Hi, sorry. This is just Eliot Waugh, from Brakebills, calling again about the charity gala. I wanted to stop by and see if there’s someone more specific I should be planning with, but I realized I didn’t really know who to talk to. Should we set up an in person meeting?”

There’s a moment of prolonged silence. “Actually, so sorry, I won’t have time. Why don’t you meet with Quentin Coldwater? He’s on the planning committee and one of our best teachers. Should I give you his contact information?”

It takes real discipline for Eliot not to laugh. “You know, I think I already have it. Silly me, calling again, you must have mentioned this before. I’ll see you at the gala, thanks for your help!”

And with that, he hangs up. He definitely deserves brunch.

He meets Margo at their usual place and immediately flops into his chair with a theatrical groan, just so she can begin to understand the depth of the venting session she’s getting herself into.

“And the emergency brunch begins,” she says, nudging his drink at him.

He explains the entire situation to her. Running into Quentin, that he teaches at the school, that they’re supposed to be planning the gala together. Everything except Charlton.

“Well, fuck,” is mostly what she has to say when it’s all over.

He’s finished one mimosa and started another. “I know. Tell me about it. Please tell me good things are happening to you to compensate for all of the nonsense on my end.”

“Not exactly, but I can pretend if it’s going to make you feel better.”

So brunch is useful as a venting session and just to be in Margo’s absolutely delightful presence, but it does not solve any of the sudden avalanche of problems descending upon Eliot’s life. He is at least still mildly tipsy as he heads back to his apartment, and that makes him less murderous when he’s suddenly hit with a snowball right as he’s approaching the doorway.

Some asshole kid yells, “Scatter!” and they all go running off in different directions.

Then a familiar voice comes from in front of him. “Sorry about that. Those - those were some of my students, who apparently thought it would be funny to come here and just destroy me in a snowball fight. If it makes you feel any better, I got it a lot worse than you did. And you actually scared them off.”

Quentin is there, and the reason Eliot didn’t immediately recognize him is because he’s right. He is covered, head to toe, in snow, to a comical extent. It makes Eliot giggle, just a little, before he reaches out to brush some of the snow from Quentin’s shoulders. “Oh, Quentin. Your students are never going to take you seriously again.”

“Trust me, they never did in the first place,” he mutters, brushing off his own arms and taking off his beanie to shake it out. He wipes off his face, too, before he looks back up at Eliot. He’s all flushed with the cold, and his long hair falls in his face a little. He really is so cute. “Hey did you hear anything back about the gala stuff? From the principal?”

Eliot huffs out another little laugh, this time more air than sound. “Yes, I did. She volunteered you, essentially to be my planning partner. She offered to give me your contact information, which obviously I already had, but apparently you’re taking the front line on this one. Sorry.”

Very abruptly, Quentin tenses up and starts to stammer. “I- what? I didn’t - I mean I’m on like a committee, but I didn’t think - Oh God, I don’t even know the first thing about-”

How very high-strung super nerd. Eliot reaches over and pats him on the shoulder. “Quentin, look. Listen. I have planned more parties than some professional party planners. My boss actually picked the right person. If you can come with me to most of the venue searches and appointments, and occasionally give your professional opinion as a teacher, it’ll all be fine. Just let me handle it.”

“Uh. Okay? I guess? I still just need to- Sorry, Eliot, I have to-” As he keeps mumbling half-finished sentences, Quentin ducks away and rushes back inside. The good news is, Eliot has his number if it turns out he really does need anything.

The brief interaction does have him feeling a little better, though.

Then he walks into his apartment and finds Charlton there.

“What the fuck? Seriously?” Eliot asks out loud. “How do you do that? Why are you doing it?”

“What do you mean, Eliot?”

“You’re in my locked apartment! You showed up in a school! You disappeared! What the hell are you? What is your deal?”

“I can’t just explain everything to you.”

Angry, and realizing he’s shaking a little, Eliot goes into his kitchen and pours himself a drink. “You haven’t explained shit, actually, and it’s really starting to take a toll on what remains of my sanity. I have enough going on in my life aside from all of this, I have a charity gala to plan with Quentin-”

“Yes, it’ll be good to have you spend some more time with Quentin.”

Eliot frowns, and sets down his drink. For some reason, Charlton is smiling at him, but Eliot can only find it unsettling, even if it does seem genuine. “Why do you say that? Does Quentin have something to do with all of this?”

Charlton laughs. “Oh, not like that. He wouldn’t know about me or know what’s going on. I just approve of him, and of you spending time with him. Would you like a little glimpse into your future while I’m here?”

“My future? Are we just skipping ahead now? What happened to present? Where are the other ghosts?”

“I told you that Dickens didn’t give an accurate portrayal. Consider this the opportunity to see what your ideal future might be. I can’t tell you how to get there or what you need to do, I can only show you turning points and how choices might have led you on a different path - a path that you might still find another way. Yes or no, Eliot?”

It seems ridiculous and crazy to agree to Charlton showing him anything again after last time. Not to mention, it still feels like none of this should be real or possible. Maybe this time there was something in his drink - but the repeat hallucinations are a little worrying. Or maybe more than a little worrying.

Then again, if he says no, what happens? Charlton leaves? Probably still not for long. And Eliot might be losing a chance to see something that could be useful. He squares up his shoulders and clears his throat. “Okay. Fine. Show me,” he tells Charlton.

Standing up, Charlton dusts himself off and walks over. He smiles, and grabs Eliot’s shoulder again. More whooshing bullshit, but this time he’s still in an apartment. He’s in a much nicer apartment by far, but he can still hear the sounds of Manhattan outside, and he immediately relaxes.

The apartment isn’t just bigger. It’s well-designed, comfortable but stylish. He’s had an obvious hand in it. There’s a piano in the corner, and as Eliot walks around, he locates a room that’s clearly a recording studio, with soundproofing and all kinds of equipment.

He looks down at himself and realizes he’s still well-dressed - but he also has on a wedding ring. “Is this what I think it is?” he asks, looking up to shoot Charlton a skeptical look.

“It might be,” Charlton replies.

More bullshit, of course. Eliot walks back out into the main living area and looks into the kitchen. There’s no alcohol anywhere to be found. It looks clean, but not unused. He runs a hand over the counter.

Suddenly, the front door of the apartment swings open, and a little boy comes running in. “Papa, we’re home!” He comes flying up to Eliot and wraps both arms around his legs, hugging him tightly.

Eliot looks down at the kid, wide-eyed, and then looks back at Charlton, trying to silently communicate his own discomfort and distress. Charlton just laughs.

Another voice comes from the door, then, and all Eliot hears is, “Sweetheart, hey, we’re-”

Then he’s back in his own apartment.

Eliot looks around, checks his hands for a wedding ring, and braces himself for a random child to come running up out of nowhere. When nothing happens again for a moment, he moves his attention to Charlton, who has another infuriating grin on his face. “What the fuck was that? I thought you said it was my ideal future, like it was supposed to be good. I’m married? With a kid? Why in the actual fuck would I be married with a child?”

Charlton pats him gently on the shoulder and then starts towards the door. “Sometimes, Eliot, what we want is more complicated than even we realize. Sometimes we are not the best judge of what is best for ourselves.”

“Does any of this mean you’re leaving me alone now?”

“No, no. You’ll see me again.” He pauses, just to wink. “When you need me.”

He’s out the door, then, and Eliot goes over to lay face down on his own couch and groan in peace. So sure, maybe he’s always wanted an apartment with his own studio so he could record music and work in his spare time. Maybe he’s even wondered if he could record music for advertisements or do enough composing that he could live on his music. But none of that was ever supposed to come with a family. He’s never wanted a family. He has himself, and Margo, and the occasional boy in and out. What more could he really ask for?

Besides, he can firmly stick with his own assessment. No part of him would be good with children. There’s no way. Not a chance in hell. And for the moment, there’s no proof whatsoever to the contrary.  
  


* * *

  
It wasn’t enough, of course, that Quentin had to run into Eliot again, this time covered in snow after being thoroughly humiliated by his students. No. Of course not. On top of that, his principal also had to get in on the joke by volunteering Quentin to be the one to help with planning the charity gala. Quentin has never planned anything successfully in his entire life. At least, not in terms of parties. He’s planned DND campaigns and grad school applications, but that’s not exactly the same thing. In fact, those things have nothing in common.

Really, he knows exactly who to blame for this entire situation.

So he calls Julia.

“Jules, you have to help me,” he says desperately into the phone, trying not to be so loud that Eliot might hear him down the hall.

“Are you being held at gunpoint or something? Please explain your tone of voice to me.”

“I’m home and that guy from my building is home, too, I know he is, so I’m trying not to yell even though I very much want to yell, please cut me some slack, Jules, I am begging you.”

She sighs. “Right. Is this more about the hot guy?”

“No, this is about you!” he tells her, only he gets a little too loud and has to stop, and clear his throat. “This is about the terrible thing you have gotten me into, you absolute monster. You told me that signing up for the charity gala committee would not be a big time commitment and that I would not have to do any actual planning. Now, hey guess what! Principal Sunderland volunteered me to be the head of the entire thing! And hot guy on my hall is in charge of the Brakebills end of the whole thing, he works for Brakebills! So not only do I have to pretend I can plan, I have to pretend I can plan in front of the hottest guy I’ve ever seen! This is all your fault!”

Jules just starts laughing uncontrollably as she holds the phone away from her ear. It’s not exactly a surprise for Quentin, mostly it’s just sort of exhausting. When she collects herself enough to start talking again, he can still hear the hint of a smile in her voice. “Oh, Q. This is so the opposite of a problem. You know how long it’s been since you even tried to go on a date. It’s like I set you up without even meaning to set you up. You have an excuse to spend time with him now! Get to know him! Weren’t you the one texting me last night that he even thought your Fillory and Further book was like, cute?”

Quentin huffs. “I did not say he thought it was cute, I said he read them growing up, too, and he told me that. Also I didn’t tell you last night, but I know his name now. It’s Eliot.”

“Eliot! I love the sound of it already. You should go for it.”

“I’m not going for anything! I’m trying to pretend I can plan a gala with him! Even though I absolutely cannot!”

She makes a fond, exasperated sort of noise at him. “If you actually need help with an aesthetic choice or something, just text me. But you could also just let him make most of the decisions and try and take the opportunity to get to know him. Stop just telling yourself you’re cursed and try to accept that this might actually be good for you. Okay, Q?”

To some extent, unfortunately, she has a point. It’s rare these days, between teaching and trying for Columbia that he finds the time to see anyone. It was even harder when his dad was still alive and sick. Now he has a chance to actually try and put himself out there with someone he already likes. Someone he’s attracted to. God, he hates how she’s always right. “I really really hate when you’re right.”

“No you don’t, it’s why we’re friends. Can I go back to enjoying my winter vacation in peace again now?”

“Yes, okay. Sorry, Jules. I’ll talk to you later.”

“I mean it, text me if you need anything.”

Then she hangs up.

Quentin is left banging his head against his own door again, trying to stop being such an anxiety-ridden mess. It doesn’t really work.  
  


* * *

  
For some reason, even though Quentin hasn’t actually helped Eliot with anything yet, it’s like he was the lucky charm for the entire plan. After Eliot ran into Quentin after the snowball fight, it’s less than 24 hours before he gets a call back from one of the best venues in the city to say they had a cancellation and now have an opening. Eliot makes arrangements to tour the space as soon as possible, and he texts Quentin to tell him when and where to meet.

When he spots Quentin waiting outside the venue, Eliot is pleasantly surprised to see how nice he looks. He does still look like a teacher, there’s no real getting around that, but he has on a nicer coat, and a green sweater in a shade that really suits him. When he turns, too, he smiles at Eliot, and that is truly dangerous. It turns out Quentin has a beautiful smile, all bright and dimpled, and it makes Eliot want to do truly ridiculous things. He can’t remember the last time looking at someone made him feel like that.

“Eliot, hey!” Quentin calls, giving him a wave.

“Quentin, hi. You look better. Less snow-covered.”

That actually, honest to god, makes Quentin blush. All pink across his cheeks and even down his neck under his collar. “Right,” he says. “Well, didn’t run into any students with a vendetta today. I guess the other day is just what I get for calling out a kid for watching a Youtube video in class like I couldn’t tell what he was doing.”

Eliot laughs, and pats Quentin on the shoulder. “God I could not do what you do. I hate kids on my best days, I can’t imagine willingly teaching some of the most obnoxious ones. Feel like all of you really do deserve a charity gala.”

“Well, thanks, I guess.” Quentin sort of half-smiles and glances over at him as the walk into the venue together.

The space is truly beautiful. There’s a high ceiling, a space for a stage. As they do their walk around, it’s obvious that there’s a lot of room and a lot of potential for something genuinely beautiful and elegant. Eliot can already see visions of a golden color palette, maybe with touches of that same forest green Quentin is wearing. Trees with monochromatic ornaments, patterned tablecloths, artfully arranged hors d'oeuvres.

There are a few more whimsical decorations from whatever the last party was in the space, a balloon arch and some snowmen, but none of them distract Eliot from what he can already picture.

“I am sorry about all the leftover things lying around. Obviously we clean thoroughly between events, and we help set up as well, that’s part of the venue fee. We have a broad selection of decorations we can offer you, including some more appropriate for your style of event. We can have a more in-depth conversation about that later,” the venue manager tells them as she’s guiding them through the space.

“I mean, these are kind of fun, aren’t they?” Quentin asks. “I know this isn’t exactly what anyone is picturing when they hear the word gala, but my kids would love stuff like this, and in the end the whole point of this is the kids, right?”

Eliot can almost feel himself developing an eye twitch. “I was put in charge of this and very specifically directed to keep it elegant. Snowmen and balloon arches are not really the picture of elegance, Quentin.”

The manager interjects. “Well, we do have some more whimsical decorations and capabilities that aren’t displayed at the moment. We can run fake snow within the space, for example. That could be a nice compromise, and it tends to go over quite well with guests of all ages.”

“Snow sounds fun, doesn’t it?” Quentin insists.

Sighing, Eliot starts walking towards the door. “Fake snow is fun until it starts falling into the champagne glasses. Again, I’ve been told very specifically to do this right. I’m going to do it right. And I thought you didn’t even really want to participate in planning.” He turns back again to wave at the venue manager. “Thank you so much for the tour, we’ll be back soon to talk about decorations!”

“I just-” Quentin starts to stammer again. “It’s not that I think I’m an expert or anything, but I was just- we talked about my students and it made me think of them, how much more they’d appreciate pictures if they saw decorations that weren’t just boring. I know they’re not boring to people our age, but they’re boring for the kids, and even if the kids aren’t coming, I just feel like it’s weird to have a stuffy adult thing to raise money for the school!”

“Stuffy adult things have their place,” Eliot tells him. “The kids aren’t coming. And if I don’t do this the way my boss wants, I’m going to lose my bonus. We need to impress potential donors, sell them the idea that the school needs money.”

“So why wouldn’t we sell them on what it does for the kids? On the importance of childhood joy?”

They’re back out of the venue again, but there’s not a cab in sight on the street. Of course there isn’t.

“I just don’t know that childhood joy is all it’s cracked up to be,” Eliot mutters.

At precisely that moment, a fucking horse-drawn carriage comes trotting up in front of the venue. Of course it does. To top that off, Charlton is the one driving it.

“With all the snow, most of the cabs aren’t running,” Charlton tells them. It has started snowing again, at least. “Do you two need a ride? Going to the same place?”

Quentin looks over at Eliot. “Are you just going back to the building?”

Eliot nods, and sighs. “Yes, but tragically I’m allergic to horses.”

“Are you?” Quentin asks, oh so kindly and gently.

Sighing again, Eliot edges a little closer to a groan. “No, I just hate them. Are we sure there aren’t any cabs?”

They both stop to look around. Charlton locks eyes with Eliot and nods his head back towards the carriage. Of course. Of course this is somehow all his doing, and Eliot is basically stuck doing it. That’s just the way things go now, apparently.

Eliot steps up and into the carriage, and he offers his hand back out to help Quentin in. They end up sitting on the bench next to each other as Quentin practically falls into his seat when the carriage takes off, trotting away towards their apartment building.

“So the party is on Christmas Eve, isn’t it? Now that we’ve got the venue? Does that get in the way of any plans for you?” Quentin asks, over the sounds of the street.

“Hm, no, not really.” Eliot shakes his head. “Part of the reason I got this assignment was because my boss noticed I hadn’t asked any days off over the holidays this year. Sometimes my best friend and I take a trip or something - her name is Margo, she works with me at Brakebills, we met in college. But since we’re not doing anything, I have nothing to do. Maybe we’ll exchange gifts on the day, she’ll probably spend the night, we might get drunk. Typical weekend plans. What about you? You a big holiday person?”

Quentin shrugs. “I, uh. I used to be. I mean, not me so much as my dad. But my dad used to be. He passed away not too long ago, and he was basically my family. I have a friend, too, Jules, we work together at the school. We grew up together, so she’s a little like family. I don’t know if she’ll be free on Christmas day this year, though. Even when she is we’re not very exciting either.”

Something about Quentin’s quiet vulnerability really gets to Eliot in that moment. He’s made jokes in the past about getting attached quickly, but he hasn’t felt it like this since Mike. He shakes off the memory to place a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. “My mom passed away when I was a kid. She was always the big holiday person in my family. So… I get it.” He pauses, and when he glances over again, Quentin is looking directly at him, listening intently. “She used to bake cookies every year, and she’d be listening to The Carpenters in the kitchen. I can still remember it.”

Quentin smiles at him. “God my dad used to love The Carpenters. He was always telling me he used to have this huge crush on Karen Carpenter back in the day. We listened to that Christmas album every single year.”

It’s strange having actual common ground with Quentin. First there were the Fillory books, not that Eliot liked them as much as Quentin seemed to, but there were parts of those books he remembered fondly. They’d always been a nice escape from the drab life on the farm, and he’d gotten away with reading them because of all the rumored metaphors for Christianity. Still, he’s not about to tell Quentin all the dirty little secrets of his miserable childhood.

He’s still thinking through that when the carriage goes over a bump, sending Quentin leaning into his space, nearly landing in his lap. Immediately, Quentin slides back off and apologizes.

Eliot just glares forward at the actual source of the problem. “You know what, Quentin, why don’t we just walk? It might be faster.”

The carriage draws to a stop.

For a moment, Quentin frowns at him. Then he nods. “Okay, Eliot. If you want to. We are a little closer now.”

Eliot hops down out of the carriage, and Quentin reaches up to try and offer money to the driver.

“No, no, the ride’s on me,” Charlton tells them through gritted teeth. “Merry Christmas!”

It’s only through sheer force of will that Eliot manages to not flip him off as he drives away. He and Quentin, after just a moment, continue on foot. 

“So you said you don’t have any solid plans for the holidays?” Eliot asks him.

With his hands in his pockets, Quentin shrugs. “I’ll probably stay home. Read. Get some lesson planning done. I mean, actually, I probably won’t work on Christmas, that sounds really pathetic, doesn’t it? I’ll probably just watch movies and read. Have some hot cocoa or something. Maybe spike it. Maybe you have the right idea on that end.”

Eliot snorts. “Cheers to that.”

It really isn’t long before they’re back to the building. They both stomp the snow off of their boots in the entranceway and proceed to checking their mail. As they start to make their separate ways to their rooms, Quentin stops and turns back.

“Actually,” he says, stepping closer to Eliot. “I was planning on grabbing some coffee or lunch or something. Do you want to come with me? We can keep talking, maybe figure some stuff out for the gala? Just- a suggestion, if you’re busy, it’s fine.”

It’s a genuine surprise. Eliot had assumed that if anyone would make the first move, it would be him. He actually hadn’t even gotten as far as planning moves, because he still wasn’t sure if Quentin was straight or not. Here he is, though, asking Eliot out for coffee. Of course the emphasis on the relation to the gala could mean it’s strictly professional coffee. Platonic coffee. That seems a lot more likely. “I can’t right now,” he tells Quentin. “I have some more things to do from home. But I’ll see you tomorrow to go and have a look at the decorations, right? We can talk more then.”

He hopes it doesn’t seem like a dismissal. Quentin just gives him a little half-smile, nods, and turns back around to head out the door.

When Eliot turns to go up to his apartment, Charlton is suddenly behind him.

“Oh, fuck off!” Eliot yells.

“Why didn’t you go with him? Didn’t I tell you I approved?”

Eliot groans and pushes past Charlton to try and get to his apartment. “I wasn’t asking for your approval, I don’t even know how or why you’re here. You’re just some kind of fucked up mistake of nature that keeps apparating in and out of existence at the most inconvenient times possible. And the stunt with the horse-drawn carriage today was insane. I don’t need you to do any shoving, I can handle things by myself.”

Charlton rolls his eyes. “You say this, immediately after turning him down. Now he’s discouraged.”

“Please feel free to take your attitude when you go, have a nice day,” Eliot says as he gets to his door, unlocks it, and slams it in Charlton’s face.

All that means, of course, is that Charlton appears right behind him again. “Eliot. Honestly. Do you always respond to help like this?”

“What is your deal? Why do you even care if I spend time with Quentin?” As he’s asking, Eliot has a terrible revelation. “Are you telling me that Quentin is the one in that future vision? I’m supposed to marry Quentin? Is that what this is all about?”

“You aren’t supposed to try and guess, and that’s a future that’s years down the line. You have no way of knowing that. Maybe Quentin’s only a friend who introduces you to the right person.”

“That’s not exactly what you implied by telling me you approve, but sure. Why not? Is there a reason you’re still right here, or can you leave me alone for ten minutes?”

“I have something else to show you,” Charlton insists.

Eliot groans loudly, mostly to suppress his urge to scream. “What now? More dead parents? Futures I’m not even sure I want? What else could it possibly be?”

“It’s another look into your past. Your more recent past. One with a chance of a do-over.”

That makes Eliot step closer to Charlton. “What does that mean?”

“It means you can try and see how a different decision would have affected the moment. Unlike your childhood memory, I’m giving you the opportunity to interact. If you want to choose something different, you can. You can see where it would have led you.”

It’s a tempting offer, as much as Eliot hates that it is. He doesn’t even know what the memory is going to be, but there are so many things in his life he wishes he could have gone back and done differently. If in this case, it’s all like an exercise and there are no real consequences, he just gets to see how things would have turned out - the sheer curiosity would kill him if he doesn’t take Charlton up on the offer.

“Just to check - this isn’t a time travel, Butterfly Effect situation. I’m not going to Ashton Kutcher myself. We go back, I fuck around, and when I come back everything is still the same, right? No consequences?”

Charlton sighs, and smiles sadly at Eliot. “Yes. No consequences.”

“Fine. Take me away, then.”

Reaching forward, Charlton grabs his shoulder, and they go whooshing back again.

When Eliot opens his eyes, he knows exactly where he is. Unfortunately, he’s in the worst night of his life. He can hear the mumbling crowd even backstage, and he can see the lights on. He’s standing in the wings, in the curtains. His throat hurts, still, from where Mike grabbed him. His own knuckles are bruised. Margo isn’t even waiting for him in the audience, because he told her explicitly that she didn’t need to be there, that she should go and enjoy herself.

His hands are shaking. He looks around, and sees the bottle. The bottle he grabbed that night, and walked onstage with.

He clenches his hands into fists, and turns to find Charlton. “Why the fuck did you bring me here? I don’t want to remember this.”

“I told you, I can give you a chance to do it all over again. Do it right.”

“And what’s the point of that?” Eliot asks him. “To remind myself what I should have done? I know what I should have done. We’re past the point of the first mistake already.”

“...No. Not really. The major turning point came here. Mike was the one who chose violence. You fighting back only made you feel guilty. The real issue was what you chose to do after. You had all kinds of options here, and you know that you chose incorrectly. So do it right this time.”

The crowd is getting antsy, Eliot can hear them. His hands are still shaking. He goes over to the bottle, opens it, and chugs straight from the mouth. Not as much as he did that night, but enough to dull the edge. Then he turns back to Charlton. “I’m not doing it. Take me back.”

“Eliot,” Charlton says, disappointment clear in his voice.

“I said take me back. Now.”

They go back, and Eliot is in his apartment. He can hear the city outside. The crowd is gone. Everything is just the right amount of quiet. He opens his eyes, to check that everything is still in the right place.

Charlton is gone.  
  


* * *

  
It isn’t exactly a surprise that Eliot said no to getting coffee with him. Quentin didn’t expect him to say yes. Still, now he feels like he tried to listen to Jules’ advice and it just didn’t work. He wishes that it was just as simple as telling her that and getting to give up, though. Instead, she’s just going to tell him he has to try harder. Friendship with Julia in a nutshell.

Before he can call her, though, she calls him. Quentin picks up.

“Jules, hey. I was thinking about calling you.”

“I just realized I forgot to tell you the party details. The day before the charity gala, teacher party at my place. Are you in?”

Quentin laughs. “Oh, yeah, of course. I’m always in. It’s not like I have anything else going on, aside from sitting at home and rereading Fillory with a glass of wine in my hand.”

Jules snorts. “Sometimes it’s like you’re a caricature of yourself, Q. I don’t even have a good joke to make about that, it’s a joke in and of itself. I try and set you up with people, I try and encourage you, and all you ever want to do is sit at home and read. You’re like a cartoon character of an English teacher.”

“Thought you said you didn’t have any jokes,” Quentin grumbles.

“Guess I found some.” She sighs. “You know I love you. Just try to let loose a little this year? Try to have some fun?”

“I’m trying, I promise. I’m making fun suggestions for the gala, but Eliot says Fogg isn’t going to like them, so he won’t budge. Then I have the whole Columbia thing still stressing me out. I really don’t need help with things to worry about right now, so I’m trying not to worry, but we all know about how well that works out for me on a normal routine basis.”

“...Q. How bad is it?”

He goes over to the wall in his apartment just to lean his head against it. “It’s not that bad. You don’t need to worry like that right now. Seriously. I’m just - I’m freaking out a little, so take it easy on me, okay? That’s all I’m asking.”

She stays quiet for a minute, waiting him out, but he’s done talking. Finally, she speaks up again. “Look. Why don’t you bring Eliot to the party? Or at least invite him. He can get to know some of the other teachers, I can get a chance to meet him. Even if nothing’s going to happen, it could be a good casual way for you to have someone else to talk to at the party that isn’t me, and that way you can make your own comfort zone. What do you think?”

It actually isn’t a bad idea - or it wouldn’t be, if Eliot would say yes. Quentin sighs. “I’ll think about. I promise. If it seems like he’ll actually agree, maybe I’ll ask him. Okay?”

“That’s all I can ask for. Take care of- oh! One more thing. I’m having some people over to help me decorate my tree on Thursday night. That’s a little more low key if you just want to get out of the house.”

“Maybe. Okay? Is that all now?” he asks her.

“Yes, Q, that’s all. But do take care of yourself!”

“You too, Jules. Talk to you later.”

For having just talked on the phone for a fairly short period of time, Quentin finds himself exhausted. He stumbles into his bedroom and lays face down on his bed. He doesn’t know what time it is, beyond the fact that it’s probably way too early for him to just give up and go to sleep. In the moment, though, he knows that he’s on his winter vacation, and he doesn’t have any more obligations until the next day. He knows, too, that if he does actually get more than enough rest, it will probably let him wake up in a better place the next day - at least hopefully.

So with it just starting to get dark out, Quentin drags himself out of bed to change into his pajamas, then falls back into bed and goes to sleep.  
  


* * *

  
Charlton stays gone the rest of that night, and all the next morning. He stays gone as Eliot goes to work, and sorts ties and folds pocket squares. He doesn’t even show up outside the venue when Eliot goes to see Quentin.

It leave Eliot in a much better mood as he sees Quentin outside.

“Quentin, hey. Sorry about yesterday.”

Quentin smiles at him. “You’re fine, Eliot. That whole carriage ride was... weird, and I know all of this planning has made you pretty busy. I’m sure you probably needed the rest after yesterday.”

That makes Eliot actually think about yesterday. He winces. “Yes. I needed the rest, you’re right. Thank you, Quentin.” They both relax slightly, and Quentin smiles at him. Eliot smiles back.

Once they’re inside the venue, the same woman from last time comes around to guide them upstairs to the storage rooms. Apparently there’s a centralized location where they keep all the available decorations that come with the rental fee.

When she leaves them there, and turns the light on, Eliot finds himself in a room where it looks like Christmas exploded. There are tacky life-sized fuzzy reindeer, and inflatable snowmen. There are string lights and hanging lights and lanterns and LED shapes. There is red and green in every conceivable shape and size, and if they actually tried to put all of it in any room at once, it would probably burn every eye in a 100 mile radius. Just looking at it all together makes Eliot slightly nauseous.

Quentin looks around the room with a smile. Eliot fights off the desire to go over and physically pull him out of the room.

“Quentin, you know we can’t use most of this stuff. Don’t look at it like that.”

“Like what? I’m just looking!” he protests, smiling over at Eliot and then looking away again.

A lot of the stuff is very obviously exactly what Quentin had been talking about. The kind of Christmas decorations that the kids would appreciate. The kinds of things that spoke to that childhood joy of Christmas that Eliot had barely ever gotten to have. That doesn’t mean it makes him specifically feel much - he doesn’t have much nostalgia for Christmas past. He can understand Quentin’s point, though. He can appreciate his stance.

Most of it is far too tacky to stand. Some of the lights, though, could work.

“What do you think that switch does?” Quentin asks.

Eliot turns and finds the switch that Quentin is referring to on the wall. “Oh, the extremely subtle giant red switch? I mean, who’s to say? I’m sure it could do any number of things.”

Quentin leans in close and elbows him. “I think you should pull it.”

“Why me?”

“Why not, El? C’mon. Don’t you wanna see what happens too?”

Honestly, Eliot does. And while it does have a warning label on it, Eliot hardly thinks they’d put such an obnoxious switch on anything that could cut the building’s power or really ruin anything in the room.

So he pulls the switch.

Everything in the room lights up simultaneously. It seems like there shouldn’t be enough fuses or outlets or something, but it doesn’t matter. Every light comes on, every animatronic spins and moves and waves, and very quickly, fake snow starts to float down from the ceiling. The flakes land in Quentin’s hair, and cling to his eyelashes, and he starts to laugh.

Unable to stop himself, Eliot laughs with him, watching as a snowflake sticks right on the end of Quentin’s nose, and he keeps just wiggling to try and get it off. After a moment, Eliot reaches over and brushes it off for him.

Quentin smiles, his eyes practically sparkling.

When they go back downstairs, fake snowflakes still clinging to both of their sweaters, Eliot tells the venue manager they’ll take the hanging lights and the snow machine. He does still have some concerns about what the fake snow is made out of, and how to avoid it contaminating the food, but he feels like it’s a good compromise. His passing remark from the other day turns out true after all. The snow feels both fun and elegant. He’s happy with it.

Quentin walks with him back to the apartment, just like usual. There’s some idle chatter along the way, but they don’t get into anything serious.

Eliot is, admittedly, a little distracted, because he’s thinking of what he’s going to do once he’s home. Something about Quentin convincing him to pull that switch has given him a determination he didn’t know he still had.

Once he and Quentin say goodbye, Eliot barges into his own apartment. He looks around for a moment before he finally clears his throat. “Charlton. I’m ready. I’m trying again.”

When Charlton appears, he smiles at Eliot, utterly delighted. “Really? You’re sure?”

“Now that I know what I’m getting into, yes I’m ready. You really need to work on easing someone into this, though. You don’t just throw people into the worst night of their life without some kind of notification.”

Charlton reaches out and places his hand on Eliot’s shoulder. “I find that it tends to make people more likely to say no or run away. So I stopped giving them the option. Makes it much easier, that has to be obvious.”

Whoosh. The hum of the crowd. The ache in his knuckles.

Eliot bites at his own lip, grounding himself in this moment, in this body. He looks over at the bottle, and leaves it sitting on the stool. He reaches a hand up and massages his own throat. He coughs, performatively, a couple of times.

Finally, the crowd starts to get rowdy again. Eliot walks out.

“Hello, hello everyone. Terribly sorry I’m running late. My throat is killing me, my voice may admittedly suffer from it.”

Only before Eliot even begins to sing, it’s like the ground rearranges beneath his feet, and without Charlton even touching him, suddenly he’s back in the apartment of the future. The wedding ring is there on his hand, the kitchen is nice and clean.

A little exasperated, Eliot turns to Charlton. “So you’re saying if I’d gone out there that night and actually performed, sober, I would have ended up here. So all of this has something to do with my singing, that’s why the studio is there, obviously. And it has something to do with the Mike situation that night, presumably?”

“Eliot, this isn’t just about your career, or your relationship. This is about your coping mechanisms, and the way that you treat other people. You and Margo love each other - but there are things you don’t tell her. Things you don’t talk about. You never explained to her exactly what happened that night. You never opened up about it. You never tried to talk about it. When it comes to the heavy emotional stuff, you try to keep it all inside. That isn’t the answer. And neither is the way you drink.”

The glaring absence of alcohol in the kitchen now becomes clear. “Oh now the guardian angel wants to call me an alcoholic?”

Charlton shakes his head. “I never said that. And I wouldn’t. That’s not my place. But the way you use drinking, that can’t be good for you. I think you already know that. Just like you know you should tell Margo about your last performance. If you can open up, Eliot, and let people in, all of this could be waiting for you. And it might be better than you think.”

Eliot turns around, and he opens his mouth to reply, but then he hears a noise and knows abruptly that Charlton is already gone.

He’s back in his own empty apartment.

That is one effective, if infuriating, way to end an argument. Eliot really just wishes he could use it himself.

He goes to grab his phone, and calls Margo to ask her to come over.

Apparently she can hear the desperation in his voice, because she shows up almost immediately. He opens the door and waves her inside, and then sits down on the couch with his head in his hands.

“I think maybe I’m not okay. And I know we generally don’t talk about things like this, but if you wouldn’t mind, I think I need to. I would appreciate it.”

Margo looks at him, expression surprisingly soft, and sits down on the couch. “Okay. Fire away, El.”

So Eliot sighs, sits up in his seat, and begins. “I know I told you some things about Mike. Like why we broke up. And I told you my last performance went so horribly that it just convinced me I should never do it again. But I didn’t exactly tell you everything that happened. When Mike came after me, and he grabbed me, it did sort of fuck up my throat, but that’s not what ruined the performance. Before I went onstage - I practically chugged an entire bottle of whiskey. Not my finest moment. When I went out onstage, I started to fall apart, I could barely sing, and between the stress and the pain and the alcohol, I threw up. And I ran off. And that was why I never wanted to go onstage again. I was the one that fucked it all up.”

For a moment, they both just sit there quietly. Margo seems to be waiting in case Eliot has anything else to say, but he doesn’t. At least not for now. He’s just waiting for her to react, however she’s going to react. He doesn’t want to look at her just in case.

“Oh, El,” she says. He finally does look up, and she just pulls him close, letting him rest his head on her shoulder. “You could have told me. Maybe I wouldn’t have badgered you so much about performing.”

“No, I- I’m starting to think maybe I should try again.” Even as he says it, he surprises himself. It’s true, though - Charlton has him thinking about it. “But I’m also thinking maybe I should… be a little more careful about my drinking. Sorry, I know that’s not very fun.”

“We don’t need alcohol to have fun, I can promise you that.”

Eliot laughs against her shoulder. Margot allows him the dignity of not pointing out that he sounds a little choked up.

She spends the night with him, and they watch shitty reality shows and throw popcorn at the television, and they don’t drink.

It is surprisingly nice to wake up for work in the morning and not be hungover. He and Margo have shifts at the same time for once, so they walk into work together, arm in arm, as he’s still telling her about Quentin’s ideas for the gala.

“God, you would not believe. I mean he’s cute, and I like him, but that’s not changing the fact that he has this whole idea about bringing childhood whimsy to the gala. I keep trying to tell him it’s about impressing donors for the school and not about having fun, but he’s not listening. We went in to look at the decorations the other day, and his taste was a catastrophe. We’re all just lucky I’m there to stop him from picking out the inflatable snowmen.”

“Inflatable snowmen?” A voice asks behind them.

Eliot freezes, and Margo turns them both around.

“Oh, Mr. Fogg, what a delight,” she tells him, smiling tightly.

“Eliot, please do tell me there aren’t going to be any inflatable snowmen at my charity gala.”

Though it comes out a little more hoarse than he intended, Eliot does manage a laugh. “Inflatable snowmen? God, no, of course not! Wouldn’t that be hideous. No it was just - something one of the teachers suggested. But I have it under control.”

Fogg scoffs. “I should hope so. You of all people should realize we have a brand image to maintain here. These donors are depending on a classy and elegant business function. No one is going to take inflatable snowmen seriously. If you do have too much trouble with that teacher, just let me know and we can easily get him reassigned.”

“No,” Eliot says, at the exact same time as Margo. They both look at each other, then away again, and Eliot continues alone. “No, it’s fine. It is my promise to you that I have everything personally under control. I give you my word.”

With a nod, Fogg eyes both of them carefully and then walks off, presumably to go and check on the other departments in the store. Eliot practically sags with relief. He says goodbye to Margo with a quick kiss to her forehead, and then heads off to his shift.

He knows that unlike with the decorations, he’s going to have to start putting his foot down with Quentin - but hopefully he can keep Quentin from getting reassigned or replaced.

That afternoon, he meets Quentin outside the venue again, just like always. Quentin has on a beanie, but he’s still got the stylish coat. It also looks like he’s actually wearing a button-down underneath this time. Maybe Eliot is having a positive influence on him after all.

They make their way inside only to be told by the venue manager that the chef is busy, and will come to meet them in a moment.

Once the manager leaves them alone, both of them spend a moment shuffling awkwardly in the hallway.

Finally, Quentin speaks up. “So are you bringing anyone to the gala? They just told me today we can bring plus-ones, I didn’t realize.”

Not what Eliot was expecting. “Oh. No, just my friend Margo. Which, she’d be coming anyways, since she works at Brakebills.”

“Probably easier than a… boyfriend?”

Eliot snorts. “Definitely easier. Anyways, I don’t have a boyfriend right now.” Though he pauses, Eliot takes the opportunity to turn the question around. “What about you? Do you have someone you’re bringing?”

“Oh, no, I don’t have a girlfriend right now or anything.”

Well that answers that question. Eliot fights the urge to wince, and nods. “Right.” There’s another pause, this one a little more long and drawn out. “Why don’t we go in and check on the chef?”

Quentin eagerly agrees, and they make their way into the kitchen. 

Of course, the chef standing there in front of a sheet pan loaded with cookies is actually just Charlton. Fucking of course. He smiles at both of them. “Well hello there! Something very special for both of you today. I know you’re here for the tasting, but I thought it might be nice to have the two of you decorate some cookies for the gala before we get into the menu selection. How does that sound?”

Eliot sighs, and opens his mouth to say something snarky, but he turns to see Quentin smiling at him. Dammit.

“I’m in if you are,” Quentin tells him.

“Fine.”

It’s getting impressively tragic, how much he’ll agree to with Quentin egging him on. They were just supposed to be there for a catering sample, and to select the menu. Yet, instead, here Eliot is, in an industrial kitchen, wearing a fucking apron, wielding a pastry bag with a piping tip as he overlooks the small armada of gingerbread men laid out before him.

Quentin is standing beside him with a spatula, looking sort of clueless and adorable. He has an apron on, too, and his hair is up in a little ponytail again. That shouldn’t still be so endearing, but it definitely is. Particularly because Eliot got to watch him put it up this time.

Trying to spark up conversation while they’re working, Quentin speaks. “So how’d you end up working at Brakebills? I mean, it seems like you could sell things well, just- I mean I’d probably buy something from you, especially clothes like you seem- Still, it seems like you should be doing something other than working retail.”

Like many of the times that Quentin opens his mouth, Eliot isn’t quite sure if he should be offended or not. Still, he takes comfort in Quentin’s blush, and the fact that he’s obviously flustered. “I just needed a job that paid well. I wish it was more complicated than that. Unfortunately, like most people who move to New York, I was hardly qualified for anything outside of the arts - and the arts don’t tend to support a lavish lifestyle or a studio apartment. I did a couple of things before I ended up at Brakebills, but a friend got me the job, and I enjoy the benefits of the employee discount.”

“Is that why you have so many ties? Or is that, like, a requirement? I just wonder because you wear them a lot, and God if I didn’t have to I never would, I find them so uncomfortable.”

Eliot, in passing, doodles a little icing tie and vest on one of the gingerbread men. “Not everyone can be the pinnacle of fashion, Quentin, but I do pride myself on it.”

Quentin snorts, then looks over at Eliot and smiles. He does have such a nice smile. And at the moment, a few little strands of hair have come loose from his ponytail and fallen into his eyes. It makes Eliot want to lean over, tuck them back behind his ear, let his hand linger and see if Quentin would push him away. Maybe if he weren’t so straight or so hopeless or so hopelessly straight - but that’s hardly anything to think about right now, anyways.

“Shouldn’t you be focusing on decorating?” Eliot prods.

Shaking his head, Quentin gestures at his sad selection of gingerbread men. “We’re just going to end up with an army of gingerbread that looks like they’ve already returned from war like that. Maybe if I knew how to work one of those little… icing bags. But I definitely don’t.”

“I could show you.”

“And you could laugh at me? No thanks, Eliot. I’m okay.”

Eliot rolls his eyes, goes over, and offers Quentin his pastry bag. “Here. Hold it like this.” He leans around, takes Quentin’s hands, and helps position them on the bag. “Then you just squeeze, from the top, down, and use the tip to draw. It’s hardly that complicated.”

“Oh yeah?” Quentin gets a mischevous little glint in his eye, and he turns in Eliot’s arms, glancing at the almost nonexistent space in between them. “Like this?” He asks, and he gives Eliot a tiny icing mustache.

Shocked, but a little delighted, Eliot jerks back, but sticks his tongue out to get some of the icing off of his own face. He picks up another pastry bag, and returns to Quentin’s personal space. “Oh you’re on, Coldwater.”

What proceeds is probably the most ridiculous thing Eliot’s done in years. That’s really saying something, after everything else he’s been thinking about and forced to remember lately, but then again, he’s an ostensibly grown adult man having an icing fight with a literature teacher.

It’s all over both of their aprons, Quentin’s hair, Eliot’s tie, and nearly everything but the gingerbread men when they’re done.

Quentin wipes at the icing on his own cheek with his thumb, and sucks it into his mouth. Eliot resists the embarrassing urge to lean over and lick the rest of the icing from his face.

“Right so that maybe didn’t go as planned,” Quentin says, laughing a little. “Obviously we should just get some cookies delivered to the party and not have people decorate them, because you never know when just… a terrible icing accident could occur.”

“Of course,” Eliot says, looking away to stifle a chuckle. He feels lighter, there, with Quentin. He feels good.  
  


* * *

  
It seems impossible that Quentin actually got Eliot Waugh into an icing fight with him while they were decorating Christmas cookies together, but he totally did. They both had to clean up afterwards, Eliot grumbling as he used damp paper towels to get all the icing off his tie and shirt - but he was smiling the whole time. Quentin had watched him.

Now they’re walking in the general direction of Julia’s place, because even though Quentin told Eliot he wasn’t going straight home, Eliot offered to walk with him. Things are going a lot better than Quentin ever expected.

They make it to Julia’s building and Quentin pauses outside. The streetlights catch and bounce off of Eliot’s curls, making them almost glow. He looks beautiful in any kind of lighting, but tonight, for some reason, he’s especially so. Quentin blinks up at him. “Hey, so thank you for walking me all the way here, but I- I think Jules would actually love to meet you if you wanted to come up? I’m sure she’d want to hear about your ideas for the gala and you could meet some of the other teachers. It’s pretty casual, we’re just decorating a tree, her tree, you know, but it could be fun, just if you wanted to join.”

Quentin is fascinated to see that Eliot looks surprised. He sort of smiles, softly, and Quentin knows he’d do almost anything to see Eliot look at him like that again. It feel dangerous how much he genuinely likes Eliot. “Sure,” Eliot says.

So as Quentin unlocks the door and gets them inside, Eliot follows him in and up the stairs. Quentin can hear the strains of Julia’s Christmas playlist before they even get there, and he smiles.

When Julia opens the door, she smiles at Quentin, and then notices Eliot. She raises her eyebrows and then looks back at Quentin. “Q, you didn’t tell me you were bringing anyone. Is this Eliot?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Quentin starts as he makes his way inside. “It was sort of last minute. It’s okay, though, right?”

“Of course it is!” she says, grinning at him. She turns back to Eliot and sticks out her hand. “Hi, sorry, I’m Julia, I teach at the school with Quentin. We also grew up together.”

Eliot smiles at her. “I’m Eliot Waugh, but I guess you already know that.”

“Yeah, you’re planning the charity gala. Quentin’s been telling me all your adventures. He says you’re doing a great job.”

As Eliot finally steps inside, he laughs. “Well, we’re trying.”

It turns out that not all of the others are there. Penny and Kady are, even though Kady doesn’t really celebrate Christmas. Josh is also there, specifically joking about how he’s there because he doesn’t have a tree to decorate at home and it’s hard to hang ornaments on a menorah. Quentin’s sort of glad it’s a small group - it means that he and Eliot won’t be overwhelmed with people.

Jules manages to put them to work untangling the lights together, so they end up sitting in a corner away from everyone else while the music jingles on in the background.

“So are all of your friends teachers?” Eliot asks him.

Quentin laughs softly and glances over. “Uh, no. I mean, I guess sort of, I know it looks like that. It’s just kind of hard to meet people, you know? So most of my friends are from work. Or, like Jules, before work. I do have one friend who works in music but she used to teach music at the school so I know that’s not exactly a great argument against the assumption.”

“No, not really,” Eliot says, smiling back at him. “Did you always want to be a teacher?”

“Mm, not always,” Quentin admits. “There were times I wanted to be a writer or study philosophy but. The Fillory books really meant everything to me at - a really tough time in my life? And when I was in college I kind of found out I could write papers about them and get taken seriously, and then I found out I could keep doing it in a graduate program, and then I found out I could teach them sometimes if I played my cards right. I did also briefly consider being a magician as a child. I got really good at sleight of hand.”

“Really?”

Nodding, Quentin laughs a little self-consciously. “Yeah. You wanna see?”

Eliot nods at him.

Quentin digs around in his pockets and pulls out a coin. He plays around with it in his hands for a minute before he does the classic ear trick, leaning over close into Eliot’s space. It earns him another little chuckle from Eliot, so he counts it as a win. He pockets the coin again and tucks his hair behind his ear. “So what about you?” He asks Eliot. “You said working at Brakebills was kind of circumstantial, what did you always want to do?”

A little frown crosses Eliot’s face, and he looks back down at the tangled lights in his hands. “For a long time, I wanted to sing. I guess maybe I still do. It feels a little unattainable now, though.”

“I don’t think it has to be unattainable. Why’d you stop?”

Eliot shrugs. “Long story. Besides, it’s not really like - teaching, or something. Teaching has job security and importance behind it. Singing’s just something I like to do.”

Quentin watches Eliot’s hands working on the light string for a few moments. Then, he licks his lips and speaks again. “I mean. Teaching can be - complicated. I got a job at a public school pretty easily, obviously, but I’ve always wanted to teach at the college level. And there was an opening recently at Columbia, so I applied. I don’t have an offer or anything yet, but - I guess in some ways that’s the real dream job. Specializing and just teaching what I want. Writing and publishing on Fillory.”

“If you’ve always wanted to, then why didn’t you try before now?” Eliot asks.

“Well for a while my, uh - my dad was sick. And teaching at public school was less time-consuming, because I don’t have to grade longer papers or also publish and do research. I think I was a little bit scared, too? Or just not sure I’d get it. But not - honestly now I’ve been teaching at my school for so long it’s going to feel strange to leave. I do like my job. I like most of my kids. I’m gonna hate to leave them.”

“You do seem pretty fond of your students, the way you talk about them. The way they’ve inspired all your suggestions for the gala.”

Smiling, Quentin tugs the last knot out of his section of the lights. “They bring out the best in me, sometimes. They’re funny. They’re the best part of my job. I thought it was the stuff I got to teach, you know, but it’s not. It’s the kids who really love it. That’s why fundraising is important, it’s for them.”

Eliot hums, quietly, and when Quentin looks over, he finds him smiling again. “That’s sweet, Q.”

The nickname catches Quentin off guard, but he loves it. He smiles, and knows that he’s flushing at least slightly.

Julia calls out to them, then, “Hey, you two, finish up those lights and come join the dance party.”

It’s immediately embarrassing, but Kady and Julia are dancing while Penny watches from the couch and Josh is dancing on his own. Quentin laughs, and he hears Eliot laugh beside him, too.

Eliot stands up first, dusting off his trousers, and then he offers his hand to Quentin. “May I have this dance?” he asks, with a crooked kind of smile.

For a moment, Quentin is struck speechless. So he just nods. He takes Eliot’s hand, and then Eliot is pulling him over to stand in the warm light of Julia’s lamps and the streetlights coming in from the window.

The song switches from  _ Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree _ to The Carpenters’  _ Merry Christmas Darling  _ and Quentin watches Eliot’s expression change into something soft as he looks off, somewhere over Quentin’s shoulder. Still, Eliot puts a hand on Quentin’s waist and they start to sway, slowly, to the music. Over Eliot’s shoulder, Quentin watches as Penny gets up and starts to dance with Kady.

“My dad used to love this song,” Quentin mumbles, just to break the silence.

“My mom did, too,” Eliot tells him, his eyes focusing back on Quentin’s face.

Quentin smiles and shifts so he can rest his head on Eliot’s shoulder, and that way avoid eye contact. After a few moments, Eliot begins to hum with the song. Then, quietly, he starts to sing. Quentin can feel it as much as hear it, the deep rumble of Eliot’s voice. It doesn’t change the fact that Eliot’s voice is absolutely beautiful. He sounds so good that it’s distracting, but as soon as Quentin lifts his head, Eliot stops again.

As a matter of fact, Eliot looks a little embarrassed. “Sorry,” he mumbles, giving Quentin an apologetic kind of look.

“Don’t be, you have a fantastic voice, El.” 

Eliot smiles, but he rolls his eyes. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Hey, seriously.” He squeezes the hand that’s still holding onto Eliot’s. “You should perform at the gala or something. Replace the band.”

Laughing softly, Eliot shakes his head. “Now you’re just being silly.”

He knows he’s not getting anywhere, so Quentin quietly gives up for the moment. “You know, I - I didn’t want to interrupt you, but normally that song always makes me laugh. My dad liked it, but we sort of had this running joke about how corny it is. Especially the line, uh - I can dream and in my dreams, I’m Christmasing with you? It’s not like no one uses to Christmas as a verb, but it’s not very common with like, normal people. So he and I made a joke about it.”

“That’s fun,” Eliot says genuinely. “It was one of the first songs I ever really heard my mom singing. She’d sing it in the kitchen while she was making cookies every year.”

The song ends, and Quentin steps back, shoving his hands in his pockets. He turns to find Jules. “Hey, we’re probably gonna head out. Have fun finishing up the tree.”

Everyone says goodbye, and he and Eliot duck out together, bundling themselves back into their coats and hats for the walk back to their apartment building.

Quentin stays quiet for the first couple of blocks, because he’s working up his courage. They’re nearly to the building before he finally manages to pause and speak up. “Hey, so - the night before the gala, we’re having a big teacher’s party. Everyone you just met would be there, but so would all the other teachers, everyone from school. If you wanted to like - come with me maybe? And meet everyone else?”

Eliot stops walking just to look at him. It’s snowing again, suddenly, meaning that there’s flakes catching in Eliot’s curls, and the light’s reflecting off the snow in a way that makes everything quiet and bright and beautiful. “I’d love to,” Eliot says.

Nodding, Quentin smiles, even as his shoulders push up close to his ears. “Great. Good. It’ll be fun.”

Neither of them say anything else as they make their way back to the apartment and shake off the snow in the entranceway. They both give a little wave before they go off to their separate apartments, and Quentin leans back against his door with a little sigh once he’s back in the safety of his own place.

Eliot actually said yes.  
  


* * *

  
The next day, as he heads into work, Eliot is still thinking about Quentin. In spite of what Quentin said about not having a girlfriend specifically, yesterday did not seem at all platonic. Quentin had introduced him to friends, danced with him, and practically sparkled up at him after Eliot sang. They’d talked about jobs and interests, and everything seemed possible.

None of that was even to mention the invitation to the teacher party, which definitely seemed like a date.

This all leaves Eliot in a much better mood than he normally would be while he’s standing behind the register and waiting in between customers.

So, of course, Fogg shows up before it’s even time for Eliot’s break.

“Mr. Fogg, I have-”

“Eliot, you don’t have to tell me. I’ve been in touch with the venue manager. She said something about a snow machine? Obviously this was that teacher’s idea, so I’ve spoken to his principal about getting him removed from the project.”

It feels like the words are left hanging in the air. Removed from the project. Just like that. Eliot exhales sharply and just stands there, briefly at a loss. “But I- I thought the idea was to work with the teachers.”

“And obviously that idea wasn’t working. I trust you, Eliot, not some random young man obsessed with children’s novels. I know that you can fix this on your own, but we clearly don’t need his interference. Now I can have his principal get in touch-”

“No, no. Just let me tell him. I can do that, I have all his contact information.”

Fogg gives him a short nod. “Good. You take care of that, too, then. Excellent work, Eliot, I still have the utmost faith in you.”

And with that, Fogg takes his leave, like he didn’t just ruin Eliot’s entire week in a very short conversation.

There’s no way that Eliot is going to feel comfortable telling Quentin he’s fired over a text message - and they’re finished with their meetings at the venue. He decides he’ll just have to go by Quentin’s place later that day with something to soften the blow.

Once his shift is over, Eliot stops at his favorite coffee shop in the city, buys Quentin a latte, and then shows up at his door.

Quentin opens the door and smiles as soon as he sees Eliot there. “Eliot! Hey, I’m so glad you stopped by. Do you want to come in?”

“Oh - no, that’s okay. I just wanted to talk to you for a second. I brought you this.” Eliot hands over the drink, and Quentin takes it, cradling it in both hands.

The smile turns soft, and Quentin sniffs at the drink. “Oh, hey, peppermint. Seasonal.” He locks eyes with Eliot again and grins. “I actually wanted to talk to you about something, too. Did you want to go first?”

Eliot hesitates. “Oh, no, that’s fine. You go ahead.”

“Okay, well. I just- I wanted to say thank you, El. I know that we don’t see eye to eye on most of the decorations and stuff, and sometimes I’ve gone a little overboard, but... it’s been really nice working with you. I feel like you’ve let me bring some of my own to this project and you’ve let me change the direction a little so the gala is more about the kids than the donors - or at least as much about the kids as the donors. And I don’t - I really don’t have much I can do besides say thank you, but I did want to say it. You made me feel like maybe I’m ready to move up to college teaching after all, like maybe I am ready to be publishing and working with other academics. So I’ve decided that if they offer me the job at Columbia, I’m going to take it.”

Steadily, Eliot’s heart sinks into his stomach. There’s no fucking way he can break the news to Quentin in the face of all that. And maybe - maybe it’ll be fine. Maybe he can tell him some other day, after Quentin finds out about the job, or maybe Q just doesn’t even need to know he got fired. Maybe Eliot can just pretend to be surprised when the decorations at the gala are just Eliot’s suggestions. He gives Quentin a smile. “That’s great, Q.”

“What were you gonna say?”

Huffing out through his nose, Eliot shakes his head. “Just thank you! You beat me to it.”

“You sure you don’t want to come in?”

Shaking his head, Eliot starts to back away. “No, sorry, I have to-” he gestures over his shoulder, and then turns to walk back, feeling ridiculous.

He reaches his apartment safely and ends up screaming into a pillow.

It feels typical that this is when Charlton decides to show up.

“I am really not in the mood,” Eliot tells him.

“Does it help if this one is slightly less traumatic?” Charlton asks, in a bizarrely good humor.

Eliot lifts his head to level a glare at Charlton. “No. Not really. I don’t really want to go diving in missed opportunities right now with everything going on with Quentin. Quentin who you told me to spend time with, and who is now being bizarrely punished by my boss, which is in turn punishing me, because you encouraged me to get attached. You give awful advice. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Charlton shrugs. “Of course, people say that a lot before everything works out. But it will work out, Eliot.”

“If I agree to this, does that mean you’ll leave me alone again?”

“Once you’ve let me make my point, I’ll go again until you need me, yes.”

Groaning, Eliot pushes himself up and off the couch. “Okay, fine, let’s get this over with. Teach me the life lesson and leave me to mope in peace.”

That one actually makes Charlton look a little disgruntled, but he approaches Eliot anyways and grabs onto his shoulder.

The funny thing is, this time when Eliot blinks and looks around, he’s clearly still just in his apartment. It does look slightly different - the decorations have shifted around slightly, his kitchen counter has different things littered across it.

Margo walks in through the door, a bottle of wine in hand, and she looks different. From her hair, Eliot can suddenly figure out that it must be about a week before Christmas, just a year ago. He frowns at her, then over at Charlton.

“El, look, I know that this time last year was when everything happened with Mike, but I hate to see that it’s been a year without you performing. I had an idea the other day, and I want you to hear me out.”

Eliot sighs. “I do live to hear your ideas, Bambi.”

She smiles at him, and pours two glasses of wine. “Of course you do. So I have money I’ve been saving, obviously, because working in retail for the rest of my life is depressing. I keep thinking I want to open my own place. And I think we should open a bar or a venue together, where you could perform. You could sing again, and we both get out of working retail. What do you say?”

At the time it all actually happened, Eliot knows what he says. He remembers distinctly. Let me think about it. And he’d thought, and thought, and months had gone by, and he still hadn’t been singing, and Margo had dropped it. Occasionally she’d drop a casual hint into a conversation, here or there, but ultimately she’d left him alone about it.

This is a no-consequence do-over, though. So fuck it. He looks at her, smiles, and shrugs. “Why not?”

As he watches her smile, the world starts to spin around him - only this time he’s not in the future apartment, not immediately. Instead, he’s standing in a venue, right by the edge of the stage. There’s a woman standing in front of him, smiling at him and sticking out her hand.

Eliot doesn’t know who she is, but he shakes her hand anyways.

“Arielle,” she tells him.

“Eliot.”

She nods. “Eliot, I have an offer for you.”

Everything shifts again, and Eliot’s back in the final destination future apartment. Clean counter, studio down the hall. This time there are pictures on the table. He picks one up to look at it. He’s there, and so is the kid - and so is Arielle.

The kid runs in, grabs his legs, but then the door opens.

Arielle comes walking in.

“Mommy! Come here!” The kid says.

The apartment practically fades to black, and Eliot comes to in his own apartment again, shoving Charlton physically away from him.

“Okay! What the fuck is the deal with that?” Eliot asks.

Charlton gives him a look, all wide-eyed and guileless like he doesn’t have any idea what Eliot could mean.

“I would not be married to a woman. I would not have a kid with a woman. Not on purpose. And if I’m sober in this magical future of yours, I don’t really understand how any of that would happen.”

“Well I can’t just tell you anything. And the point isn’t who’s behind the door, Eliot.”

“The point is nothing! All you’ve given me is shitty advice and an obviously fake vision of some bullshit future! I get it, fine, I should go back to singing and I’ll be happier or more fulfilled, but if I do that’s going to have very little to do with you! You are not great at this!”

Charlton sighs. “People always say that.”

Eliot grabs a pillow and shakes it at Charlton in frustration. “Well people are right! Now leave me alone!”

With that, Charlton just pops out of existence again, and Eliot sits down heavily on his couch. He knows, knows himself and his life well enough to know that he wouldn’t marry a woman at this point in his life unless that woman was Margo and she genuinely wanted him to for some bizarre reason. There’s no reason for the concept of it to leave him so shaken when he knows it’s bullshit. Still, it’s too like the worst visions of his future life from when he was growing up in Indiana. Back then, it was the only thing he could picture for himself, and it was terrifying. To have it thrust back at him, now, puts him back in a bad mood - and he wasn’t even in a good mood.

After some time spent shivering on his couch, Eliot shakes the whole thing off and goes into the kitchen to grab a bottle of wine. Fuck it.  
  


* * *

  
Ever since Eliot brought him a coffee, right to his front door, Quentin feels like he’s been in the perfect holiday spirit. He’s done some Christmas shopping, decorated his apartment, and generally felt like nothing was going to bring him down. Even if he didn’t get the job at Columbia, it felt now like that might be okay. He really did enjoy teaching at the school, and he’s put so much work into the gala and the fundraising that now he almost wants to stay just to reap the benefits of all that.

The gala is steadily approaching, though, and with Quentin knowing that he’ll probably end up dancing with Eliot again, he wants to make sure he looks nice enough to stand next to Eliot. There’s nothing really appropriate for the occasion in Quentin’s closet. Originally, he’d been planning on making some of his teacher clothes work, but he knows with Eliot around, that won’t do. Instead, he decides to go to Brakebills and buy a suit.

There’s no way he can know for sure that Eliot will be working. Quentin would go and ask, but that would ruin the effect of what he’s trying to do. He decides to just pick a time that seems best and go down there. If Eliot isn’t there, then the suit gets to be a surprise. If Eliot is there, he can help Quentin pick it out.

Admittedly, Quentin is relieved when he makes it up to the menswear department and finds Eliot behind the desk.

Eliot, who was sort of slouched over and leaning on the counter, straightens up immediately and blinks. “Q?” He asks, clearly genuinely surprised.

Quentin smiles. “Yeah, hey. I, uh- I realized I don’t really have anything to wear for the gala and I was hoping that you might be able to help me out.”

“Oh, I- I don’t know that that’s-”

“Eliot, sorry to interrupt.”

Quentin watches Eliot’s expression drop into one of horror, and turns around. The man standing there isn’t immediately recognizable. Quentin just sort of blinks at him.

“Henry Fogg, store owner,” the man tells him, sticking out his hand.

“Oh! Hi, Quentin Coldwater, I’m one of the teachers. Thank you so much, by the way, for sponsoring the gala. I know my ideas were probably not what you were expecting-”

“Please, that’s all right, you don’t have to apologize to me. I’m sure you can understand that going in a different direction really wasn’t anything personal, Mr. Coldwater. Brakebills just has a brand image to maintain.”

Frowning, Quentin opens his mouth and closes it again. “I- um. Sorry?”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to cut you off, but I appreciate you being so gracious. Eliot, we have some names that need to be added to the guest list.”

“I’ll get right on that, Mr. Fogg,” Eliot says behind him.

Quentin just stays where he is, just staring at the displays behind Mr. Fogg, even as Fogg walks away. The conversation doesn’t exactly make sense - but he has a terrible sinking feeling in his stomach, anyways. He turns back around to face Eliot, and finds that Eliot’s grim expression answers a few of his questions pretty quickly.

“Your boss didn’t like my ideas.”

Eliot shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, Quentin. I was supposed to tell you the other day, but I didn’t quite have the heart to do it-”

The coffee. Everything suddenly makes a lot more sense. Quentin looks down at his shoes. “Right. Because I cut you off to tell you how much all of this - meant to me. I’m sorry, Eliot. I shouldn’t have - I mean, I guess you were right all along, trying to warn me that your boss wouldn’t appreciate the whole for the kids idea. It’s - it’s a donor gala! Of course it needs to be sophisticated. I just - um. Sorry. I’m just gonna go.”

“Q,” Eliot calls after him, but Quentin is already rushing back to the escalator and trying to escape from the store.

He can get a suit somewhere else. Or maybe something in his closet will work after all.  
  


* * *

  
As soon as Quentin leaves, Eliot wants to run after him and chase him down and make him stop. He also has a feeling, though, that his presence wouldn’t be welcome. He should have told Quentin about the issues as soon as he found out. Texting him would have been better than him finding out like this.

Now, here he is, stuck behind the counter, knowing that all his plans for the teacher party and the gala both are pointless now.

“Shouldn’t you be leaving soon? To get ready for the party tonight?” Charlton asks behind him.

Eliot turns, quickly, and points at him. “You. This is your fault, again. And no, of course I’m not going to the party, didn’t you see his face? He’s going to hate me. If he doesn’t now, he will by the end of the night, or the gala. There’s no point.”

Charlton frowns at him. “Eliot, you have to go! Think of everything the two of you have worked for!”

“Which all means nothing, now, thank you so much for reminding me. All you have done since you showed up is fuck with my head. You try to get me to sing again, try to get me to get sober, try to tell me I should be hanging around with Quentin and then you show me the most depressing future imaginable. Well I’ve had enough. You can fuck off. I’m not listening to you anymore.”

As soon as he’s done, Eliot turns back around. He can hear Charlton whooshing away behind him. Good riddance.

Even the high of telling Charlton off doesn’t really make it any less depressing when Eliot returns to his dark, empty apartment and knows that Quentin is off at the party. He isn’t sure if it’s worse to envision Quentin having fun without him or Quentin being just as miserable as he is, sitting in a corner by himself. Neither one makes Eliot feel any better.

If things were different, he and Quentin could be really good for each other. Eliot could tell him all the tragic bits of his past and Quentin would give him that beautiful sad look he has, and Eliot would listen to anything he needed to say. He hasn’t felt a connection like this with anyone in a long time - maybe not even since he met Margo.

Things aren’t different, though. Charlton is being ridiculous. Eliot needs money and a job and that bonus, and Quentin’s probably straight after all, and drinking is better than moping sober.

Eliot’s out of wine, though, and he got rid of all the liquor. Instead of going out, he calls Margo.

She shows up with a bottle of sparkling cider, alcohol-free.

He snorts as he steps aside to let her in, but she just glares at him.

“Don’t laugh at me, I’m improvising. This is what a supportive friendship looks like. Me, going to an actual supermarket to buy this for you because we’re not drinking anymore.”

She’s right, and he knows that she is. He loves her for it.

Walking over, he pulls her into a hug and kisses the top of her head. “Thank you, Bambi. Sorry I’m terrible. It’s just a bad time.”

“Yeah, no kidding. You’re sitting in a dark apartment alone without any music on. It’s depressing as fuck in here.” She goes over to his laptop and wakes it up, pulling up a playlist just to get some background noise going. “Now come here, drink the terrible juice with me, and tell me all your boy troubles.”

So they sit in the kitchen, and Eliot does. He skips over telling her any of the Charlton stuff, because he’d sound beyond the point of help, but just the Quentin situation is sad enough.

Margo sighs at him, and shakes her head. “First and foremost, you’re being an idiot, and I’m telling you that because I think you already know. This sounds like the nicest boy you’ve ever had an interest in - if you’d shown up at the party tonight anyways, that could have been your moment. That aside, though, you have to come to the gala.”

Eliot wrinkles his nose. “Really? I was thinking of skipping out.”

“Oh absolutely the fuck not. Because we have a plan, and we’re fixing this.”  
  


* * *

  
Quentin finds out about the job the day of the charity gala. Still a little wiped out and hungover from the party, and the fact that he’d spent it hiding in the corner and drinking, he wakes up to an email.

The offer isn’t just good - it’s fantastic. It’s a tenure track position, the pay is through the roof, it’s everything he ever thought he wanted. For some reason, he just can’t bring himself to reply right away. Instead of making him happy, the email just leaves an unpleasant pit of anxiety lingering in his stomach - and it’s not like he needed help with that, considering the fact that Eliot is still supposed to be there.

He ended up buying a suit after all. He didn’t get it at Brakebills, and he has no idea if Eliot’s going to like it, but it makes him look a little more professional, so he goes with it. If nothing else, maybe it will impress the donors.

The entire day creeps by painfully slowly. It’s like he can feel each and every minute passing. He accidentally gets ready almost an hour before he needs to, and spends the extra time sitting on his couch, twiddling his thumbs.

He decides to leave early, too, just in case he would otherwise bump into Eliot in their building. Quentin has been studiously avoiding him by mostly just not leaving his apartment unless he feels like he can safely know that Eliot either won’t be there or will be in his own apartment already.

When he arrives at the venue, he finds that people are already milling around. Everyone is dressed nicely, and elegantly. The front of the building and the foyer are lit, all warm and golden in the most flattering light possible.

The ballroom itself, once he’s inside, really is breathtaking. Eliot did a spectacular job. The gold and forest green contrast beautifully. There are big, towering trees scattered around the space, covered in gold ornaments. The tablecloths are an impressively soft material with a velvet pattern laid overtop of the gold fabric. On the hors d'oeuvres table, everything looks delicious and attractive simultaneously, and everything is coordinated together in a perfect, impeccable image. Clearly Mr. Fogg didn’t need to worry about his brand. Eliot had it covered, in spite of Quentin’s attempted interference.

From behind him, someone says, “Q! You’re here!”

Fortunately, it’s Julia. Quentin turns to face her and manages to give her a little half-smile. “Hey, Jules. Nice to see you here, too.”

“Everything looks beautiful. Even the food. Eliot really did a great job, didn’t he?” she asks. For some reason, in spite of Eliot skipping the party, Julia is still really pushing the two of them.

Quentin just sighs and glances down at the drink in his hand. “Yeah, he sure did. He has a great eye for stuff like that.”

“Have you seen him yet?”

Shaking his head, Quentin manages to look back up.

Julia frowns. “Well I’m sure he’ll turn up. It’s his event.” She licks her lips, and the corner of her mouth quirks up. “Did you hear back from Columbia?”

Glancing down, Quentin flicks at the rim of his cup with his thumbnail. He nods. “Yeah. I heard back today. They offered me the job.”

“Quentin! That’s fantastic news.”

“Is it?” he asks her, unable to stop himself.

When he looks at her again, she looks confused. “I thought it was. Is that not what you want anymore?”

“...I don’t know, Jules. The decision isn’t as easy as I thought it was. I’m not sure I want to leave the school after all.”

She reaches out and places a hand on his arm. As she lingers for a moment, she rubs there comfortingly. “Whatever you choose, Q, I’m here for you.”

He nods at her, and Kady comes over to pull her away, waving at Quentin as she does.

Quentin nods at her, and takes another long sip of his drink.

In that moment, the band winds down, and a familiar voice comes floating over the microphone, as Eliot takes the stage.  
  


* * *

  
Margo’s plan is both beautiful and romantic. Eliot has no real confidence that it’s going to work, but he goes along with it anyways.

From there, a series of events proceed.

He makes her a promise that if he still gets the bonus, the two of them will use it to open somewhere he can perform and they can work together to own their own place, no longer just working for Brakebills.

He has an extremely uncomfortable conversation with Mr. Fogg where he puts in his notice with the condition that he wants to perform at the gala.

He still also has to actually get dressed, do vocal warmups, and show up to the gala.

Somehow he manages to do all of this in less than 24 hours. Essentially, the bonus is pay for planning the gala and for performing. Fogg is giving him that much. That plus the opportunity to perform is what Eliot gets, and Fogg gets the fact that after Eliot performs and the gala is over, he’s free from Eliot’s continued presence and Eliot no longer receives an employee discount.

He arrives at the gala after the start time on the invitations, and manages to get backstage unseen. Waiting there fills him with absolute dread.

The entire situation would probably be easier if Eliot still couldn’t remember the last time he sang in public. Unfortunately, no thanks to Charlton, he can remember it very vividly. The memory is playing on a loop in his head as he sneaks around backstage and nervously straightens his vest and his cuffs. The band is very much in the middle of a song, still, but he couldn’t stand to be out in the party, and couldn’t really risk it, either. Quentin is out there, and Eliot can’t even be sure that this is going to fix it. He has to try, though.

As the song draws to a close, everyone at the party claps politely. The band, more specifically the singer, gestures him onstage, and he follows her lead.

He steps up to the microphone, and pauses as he’s forced to awkwardly adjust it.

“Hello, everyone. Resident party planner extraordinaire Eliot Waugh, arguably your host for the evening.”

Eliot looks out over the party, and his audience. First it’s difficult to see, in the glare of the lights and the way they bounce off all the metallic decorations. Then, as he squints, he finally manages to spot Quentin, standing by the snack tables, looking pointedly down into his drink like he might be able to escape into it.

“I- I have something to say, up here. Or do, really. I haven’t performed on a stage in a very long time, so you’ll have to excuse the dramatics, I think I’m still a theater kid at heart, but - Well, what’s Christmas without a little drama, hm? So our actual dear host Mr. Henry Fogg has agreed to let me sing one song on the condition that I never do it again and I leave him alone after tonight, forever, both conditions I’ve agreed to. I hope you all enjoy it, as in some ways it’s my goodbye to all of you at Brakebills, but really it’s for… one person in particular.”

Quentin glances up, then, so Eliot clears his throat and looks at the band, instead, checking in with them as they begin to play the song.

It’s The Carpenters’  _ Merry Christmas Darling _ , because of course it is.

Eliot only makes it through the first verse before he looks out at Quentin.

This, very embarrassingly, means that Eliot is making direct eye contact with him as he sings,  _ But I can dream and in my dreams, I'm Christmasing with you _ .

To Eliot’s absolute surprise, Quentin snorts out a laugh, and tries to hide his smile behind his drink, but he’s failing miserably. Eliot starts to smile as he continues to sing, and he doesn’t take his eyes off of Quentin. But Quentin doesn’t look away, either.

He does, closer to the end, search the crowd for Margo. She’s there, smiling at him, her hands noticeably free of a drink. She nods at him, and gestures at him that he should go back to looking at Quentin - so he does. Quentin’s still standing there, smiling softly, one eyebrow raised.

The song, of course, isn’t even that long. It’s over far too quickly for Eliot to still feel really prepared for what he still has to do, which is the hard part, in some sense. Maybe it should have been more difficult to sing onstage for the first time in years, but after everything with Charlton, it really wasn’t.

As soon as he steps down from the stage and out onto the dance floor, he walks over to Quentin. They lock eyes, and Quentin just looks at him expectantly. That’s fair.

Eliot clears his throat. “I’m sorry, Q. For everything. I want you to know how much I mean that. I should have told you the truth the day that Fogg told me. Even when you found out, I should have tried to make it up to you, and I shouldn’t have skipped the party. Margo really didn’t let me hear the end of that, though, so hopefully that makes you feel slightly better. I just… I’ve made some mistakes in all this. But I’m so glad we got to work together, and I hope that you can forgive me, and we can keep going. Not just because it would make living in a building with you horrifically awkward if you hate me now.”

Quentin huffs out a laugh, and Eliot feels his heart soar. “It’s okay, El. I’m not - I’m not actually that mad. I was upset when everything happened at the store, and I was upset last night, but mostly because I was sort of… embarrassed, and I felt ridiculous. I really meant everything I said when you brought me coffee, I loved working with you. Just knowing everything else you did wasn’t just… pity or something makes a big difference.”

Frowning, Eliot reaches out and places a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. “Hey, of course it wasn’t pity. Who gives someone pity coffee?”

That makes Quentin laugh again, a little more genuinely. “I mean, probably no one. That’s what your broken brain will tell you, though, I guess.” He smiles up at Eliot, then he blinks with recognition and his smile widens. “Hey! God, I can’t believe I- I am so proud of you for going up there. After everything you said about how long it’s been since you performed and how much you weren’t sure you really would - that’s incredible that you did it. And here, of all places. And you quit your job at Brakebills! Are you going to go into music full time?”

“Sort of?” Eliot tilts his head. “Fogg offered me a bonus for planning the gala. And Margo has some money saved up, too - she suggested about a year ago that she and I should open a venue or a bar or a coffee shop or something where I could perform on a regular basis and the two of us could run our own place and stop working retail. Now that I - ah. Now that I’m trying to stop drinking, it probably won’t be a bar, but we’re still not one hundred percent sure of all the details.”

Quentin reaches out and takes his hand. “Good for you, Eliot.”

“That’s more than enough about me, though. Q, did you hear back about Columbia?”

That makes Q duck his head, and his shoulders come up a little. “Yeah, I did. It’s - it’s a really good offer. But I’m not going to take it.”

“You’re not?”

Quentin shakes his head. “No, I’m not. I want to stay at the school. I want to stick with my students, and see the funds we raise at the gala get put to good use, I want - I want to keep my job. I really like it.”

Eliot nods, and smiles. “Good for you.”

“Are you two done now? Can I meet him officially?” Margo asks from behind them.

Turning, Eliot pulls her by the arm, and she steps closer, offering a hand to Quentin.

“Margo Hanson, nice to actually meet you, Quentin. Eliot didn’t shut up about you for weeks.”

That, of course, makes Quentin blush, and he looks over at Eliot before he looks back at Margo. “Well. Um. Thanks? I guess?”

“Oh he is cute,” she says, winking at Eliot. Eliot laughs.

“Eliot, could I have a moment, please?” Fogg says, suddenly.

Eliot straightens up his posture and turns, surprised. Margo gives him a little shove, and he steps away to talk to Fogg, leaving poor Quentin unattended with Margo. Eliot can make it up to him later.

Fogg clears his throat. “When you said you wanted to perform, I assumed it would be embarrassing. Surprisingly, it wasn’t. As such - I know you don’t want your job, and as much as I hate to lose you, I do agree it might be time for you to move on. However, if you’re interested in more professional recordings, I would like to offer you to the opportunity to work on one of the new commercials for Brakebills. You could produce the music, and I would get final approval, but we could pay you well. Be your first customer in your professional music career.”

It’s nothing at all like what Eliot expected him to say. He stands there, for a moment, stunned.

“Eliot, I will need an answer.”

“Sorry, Mr. Fogg. Of course, I’d be - I’d be glad to. Thank you.”

Fogg nods, and pats him on the arm before he walks away. “You can probably call me Henry, now that I’m not your boss. We can talk more soon.”

“Okay. Henry?” Eliot calls after him, and Fogg just gives him a little wave.

Eliot’s never going to be able to call him Henry.

Delicately, someone clears their throat again behind him. Eliot’s getting a little sick of interruptions. He knows who this one is, though.

He turns, and there’s Charlton.

“I guess I should say thank you, or something,” Eliot tells him, reluctantly.

Charlton shrugs. “You don’t have to. This is all a part of the job, and you don’t really owe me anything. The only reward I need is you, living your best life. Clearly you’re going to start doing that from here on out. This is why they send me down here, you know. I shake things up, make you uncomfortable, but in the end you face your demons and you come out better for it. And you’re not the only winner here, either. There’s Margo, too, and Quentin. Plus, Quentin’s friends, who will be happy to see him happy. A few small changes and the end result affects so many.”

“Okay, that’s enough of the It’s a Wonderful Life speech, I get it. Every time a bell rings, etc.” Eliot sighs. “Thank you. For the push. In the end, I guess I did need it. I’m not going to say I approve of your methods, or the fucked up mind tricks with the future bullshit, but I will enjoy the end result, so I am saying thank you for that. That, and nothing else. Please do not come back.”

Laughing, Charlton leans forward and pats Eliot on the chest. “Oh, hopefully I won’t need to, Eliot Waugh. That’s the point of coming down here in the first place. I can offer you one more thing, if you want it. A look at the future you’ve set up for yourself. No more secrets.”

Eliot looks at Charlton. Then he turns, and looks back over at Q, who’s still talking to Margo. Q’s friend is over there now, too, and they’re all talking and laughing together. Quentin is blushing a little, Eliot can see it even under the lights.

Turning back to Charlton, Eliot shakes his head. “I think I’m good, actually. But thank you. Sincerely.”

With that, Charlton gives him a little bow. Then, Eliot blinks, and he’s gone.

He takes a moment, just one more moment, to watch Quentin squirm. Then, when no one else interrupts him, Eliot goes back over and takes Quentin by the arm.

“Okay, I think that’s enough. Thank you, Bambi, nice to see you, Jules.”

The two of them laugh, and Margo kisses Eliot on the cheek and winks at him again before she turns and walks away.

Quentin turns to him and blinks, still flushed. “Did you have to just leave me here like that?”

“Well now I’m back. Would a dance make up for it?”

Clearly pretending to consider it, Quentin narrows his eyes and tilts his head. “I guess it might.”

Eliot offers Quentin his hand, and they settle into position. Eliot leads them, together, out onto the dance floor, and the band plays something nice and soft and slow.

“I- um. I actually meant to mention earlier, before we got interrupted - I have a friend that works in music? I think I said that before when we were talking at Jules’ place. She used to teach with me. I might be able to get you her number or something, see if you guys hit it off or she can do anything for you. Or if nothing else, I can invite her the next time you perform somewhere.”

Something about that idea rings a bell for Eliot. His brow furrows. “What’s her name?”

Quentin frowns too. “Arielle. Why?”

Resisting the urge to laugh, Eliot just smiles, and leans his head on top of Quentin’s, pressing closer as they dance. “Oh, no reason.”

That still doesn’t explain every part of the future situation - but it’s enough to clear some things up. Eliot’s okay with not knowing everything just yet. It gives him some time to get used to the entire concept of children.

As he and Quentin dance, and Eliot closes his eyes, he suddenly feels snowflakes landing on the top of his head. He opens his eyes again, and looks up at the ceiling, and realizes that the venue manager must have disregarded Fogg and left the snow machine on. Either that, or he went back and changed his mind.

Whatever it was, it makes Eliot pull back enough to look down at Quentin. He’s smiling, too, and looking up to watch Eliot in the fake snowfall.

It is an absolutely picturesque, perfect moment - so Eliot leans down and presses a kiss to Quentin’s lips - and Quentin kisses him back. And there, Eliot’s unknown future begins.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for "Like Snowflakes in the Air"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21804859) by [aravendown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aravendown/pseuds/aravendown)




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